


twice twined, once forged

by InkwardSpots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Avada Kedavra eyes, Black Hermione Granger, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Desi Harry Potter, Desi James Potter, Desi Potter Family (Harry Potter), Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Familiars, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, M/M, Mentor Severus Snape, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Morally Grey Albus Dumbledore, Morally Grey Severus Snape, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Nagini (Harry Potter), Parseltongue, Parseltongue Kink, Possessive Tom Riddle, Protective Nagini (Harry Potter), Romantic Soulmates, Sane Tom Riddle, Sassy Harry, Sassy Nagini, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tags May Change, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Tom Riddle Being an Asshole, Tom Riddle Needs a Hug, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle is a Sweetheart, but nagini's a little shithead, everntual tom/fem!harry, garrick ollivanders part creature, i don't know my plot, ianthe lily potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkwardSpots/pseuds/InkwardSpots
Summary: There aren’t many things that Ianthe doesn’t wonder about.She wonders why her parents died without her, she wonders why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon need to be so cruel, and she wonders why Dudley needs a racing bike for his birthday, but most of all, she wonders what the word Voldemort means and why it's written on her chest .Then the letters arrive.Really, it’s quite amazing, the yellowed parchment with the familiar snake she sometimes found in her dreams with the boy called Tom, the friendly giant of a man called Hagrid with kind, crinkled eyes and the breathtaking displays of magic at every corner and turn and the idea of Soulmates.But then she learns what Voldemort means, learns that he murdered her parents, and it breaks her heart, because for a moment she thought that she'd finally be able to find love.But no matter, she’ll carve her own way, and she’ll forget him, forget the reminder of what could’ve been if not for heinous crimes and broken families.(but like a monster in the night, forgotten, Ianthe doesn’t realise he will always come back.)
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Draco Malfoy & Lucius Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Harry Potter & Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Petunia Evans Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Voldemort - Relationship
Comments: 87
Kudos: 311





	1. marked

**Author's Note:**

> full summary: 
> 
> There aren’t many things that Ianthe doesn’t wonder about. 
> 
> She wonders why her parents died without her, she wonders why Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon need to be so cruel, and she wonders why Dudley needs a racing bike for his birthday, but most of all, she wonders what the word Voldemort means and why it's written on her chest .
> 
> Then the letters arrive.
> 
> Really, it’s quite amazing, the yellowed parchment with the familiar snake she sometimes found in her dreams with the boy called Tom, the friendly giant of a man called Hagrid with kind,crinkled eyes and the breathtaking displays of magic at every corner and turn. 
> 
> She meets the funny boy with pale skin and shiny alabaster hair, who flushes ever so lightly in embarrassment when she doesn’t look, the old man called Ollivander with unnatural all-knowing eyes much like her own and who is kind (and strange) enough to explain the concept of Soulmates when she helps him craft her wand.
> 
> She learns what Voldemort means, learns that he murdered her parents, and it breaks her heart, because for a moment she thought that she'd finally be able to find love.
> 
> But no matter, she’ll carve her own way, and she’ll forget him, forget the reminder of what could’ve been if not for heinous crimes and broken families.
> 
> (but like a monster in the night, forgotten, Ianthe doesn’t realise he will always come back.)

Ianthe Lily Potter was many things.

She was skinny, for one.

Skinny as a bean some might say, with a golden-bronze complexion and dainty bones that looked like they could snap if you held them too tightly. She had the most garish hair, a bedraggled mop that could never be brushed, _a nasty thing she got from her father,_ Petunia would gossip, lip curled as if she couldn't believe it, _foreigners_. 

And yet, Ianthe would hold that close to her chest, because it was hers, _hair like her father,_ would be added to the small list of treasures in her heart, time spent imagining what he would have looked like, had he been alive. 

And her eyes, they were an unnerving vibrant green, glass-like and all knowing, looking like they belonged on the head of a porcelain doll instead of a miscreant little girl with high cheekbones, pouty lips and dainty bones. She knew that they weren’t normal, instead, they were _special_.

Dudley's eyes were watery blue, always narrowed and vindictive, whilst Miss. Conway’s was amber, but she had a hard stare, as if she believed the Devil would possess Ianthe at any opportunity. 

Maybe she would have hated her eyes, if she had never found out where they were from. Maybe she would have been liked more if they were a nice hazel brown, or even a less demonic green. But they weren’t, and so, when she saw the picture album hidden in the second bedroom, and when she eased it open whilst the Dursleys were out, and she flipped through it, saw the little red-haired girl with glassy green eyes and dimples opening her Christmas presents, saw the button nose on her face covered in ice cream, the softly flushed pink cheeks widened in a smile and the arms around the sallow-skinned boy with large clothes _(like her, Ianthe)_ and lanky hair and crooked nose and coal eyes with his arms around the red-haired angel, and so she drank it in. 

The soft look in his eyes when he looked at the girl, the cheery grin on her face, the glassy ( _demonic_ ) vibrant ( _abnormal_ ) eyes, the clenched hands, the arms around each other and best of all, the writing on the back: **_Lily_** _& Severus_ ** _,_** ** _best_** _friends_ ** _forever!_ ** **** scribbled in a childish scrawl, transitioning between the two different penmanships. 

And she knew who the little girl was. 

Lily.

Her mother, captured in this picture forevermore, hidden away like some forbidden secret, with her best friend Severus by her side. 

True friends, where what they were and Ianthe decided that they would stay that way, forever happy in their little corner of joy, with arms embraced in each other strong grip, hands held by each other with soft eyes and blinding smiles.

And when the Dursleys came back from their visit to Marge, they didn’t notice the missing picture nor their nieces strange expression -- something between joy and longing, between sadness and love, between thankfulness and hatred. No, they only barked at her to hurry finishing dinner and get back in her blasted cupboard.

And, back with the spiders and shrouded in darkness, only allowed the small sliver of light from the shuttered metal grate, she gazed at the picture and million different emotions bubbling inside her, and she looked at Severus' face, the soft eyes and gentle hand, and she wondered, wondered with eyes wide, wondered what the emotion in his eyes was called.

And she hoped, hoped that one day someone would look at her with the same soft and tender look in their eyes like Severus, and grant her the same warm smile.

But despite these thoughts, these thoughts of unknowing love and selflessness, the mark on her collarbone burnt, burnt beyond doubt, and once again, tracing the lightning scar, she wondered what the word _Voldemort_ etched above it meant.

… 


	2. the snake and the vanishing glass.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianthe has a friend in Miss. Nirmala, the Dursley's are as horrible as ever and apparently Ianthe can talk to snakes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the hits, kudos, comments and bookmarks! i'm so glad so many of you liked it and hope you will enjoy this chapter as well. 
> 
> on that note, warning for racial slurs in this chapter because people are cruel and stupid.

"For goodness sake Isabelle, no, I am telling you, Will was down there with that little hussy -- what's her name? -- Nirm-something-or-the-other. Foreigners, they're taking our jobs, and they'll take your husband too if you're not careful, Lord knows, I'm stuck with one in my own house, nasty little vermin…"

These were the bases of Petunia Dursleys' day to day gossip calls, and it was for this reason that Ianthe decided Aunt Petunia must live a very boring life, filtering inane pieces of meaningless chatter about Neighbour No. 4 and Miss. Nirmala Chakrabarti (who was really nice, and always said hello to her, who kissed her head and said  _ mashallah  _ when she saw Ianthe's waterfall of tangled, curly hair, and gave dirty eyes to the adults that treated Ianthe like a piece of dirt, who always gave Ianthe a either a Cadbury chocolate or even a newly-invented sweet to taste-test -- because she was a confectioner -- and even an Indian sweet called a  _ Jalebi  _ that Ianthe decided was her new favourite.) and her alleged interest with her friend Isabelle’s husband, Mr. William Smith (who was stuffy, and horrible, and who always laughed the loudest when Petunia and Vernon made racist jokes, who always looked at the 13 - year - old's walking home from St. Mary's Girl School with a strange look in his eyes, and who always asked why the  _ Paki Girl _ was still in the house.) 

But Ianthe knew that was false, because Mr. Smith was a nasty man with an even nastier temper, and he was probably telling Miss. Nirmala to leave their country, but Miss. Nirmala gave as good as she got (one time, she gave a big dressing down to an old lady who called Ianthe  _ Paki Invader _ (the old lady probably got it from Mr. Smith), and afterwards, when Ianthe had finished four  _ jalabi's _ and working on her fifth after an hour of crying after she learned what the word meant and Miss. Nirmala letting Ianthe hug it out with her, she told Ianthe that she should be proud of who she was, her waterfall of curly raven hair, her beautiful green eyes, and even her odd abilities that sometimes manifested when she was angry (once, she turned a customer’s caramel hair a horrible bogey green after she got rude to Miss. Nirmala, but Miss. Nirmala only laughed and said  _ Well Done, _ making Ianthe feel all gooey inside.) 

Miss. Nirmala looked like she was so sad, and Ianthe realised that Miss. Nirmila probably got called nasty-names too from stupid people that were too narrow-minded and cruel, and Ianthe felt like she was about for cry because how could someone call nice Miss. Nirmala nasty names as well? And so Ianthe hugged Miss. Nirmala said, "I'm sorry they hurt you." and suddenly they were both crying and letting all the hurt out from inside.)

There was also the fact that Ianthe knew Miss. Nirmala liked the girl down the street who had hazelnut-coloured skin and great big braids with beads in them, and when Ianthe said they were pretty, she came the next day and braided Ianthe's hair for her and put in the beads, but she also always came to get her milk _mishti, (Ras Malia, _corrected Miss. Nirmalla) for her Sunday family dinner (but Ianthe just knew that she came to see Miss. Nirmala!) but when Ianthe told Miss. Nirmala this, she just gave a weak laugh, an embarrassed blush, and said, "You're too young to know, _meri jaan_. Miss. Eshe is just a very kind customer."

And so, Ianthe decided that to Aunt Petunia, whose day was spent caring for Dudley and Uncle Vernon and entertaining herself with the latest interior cuts compared Miss. Nirmala who spent the day inventing and selling sweets, spending an hour each day with Ianthe after school or even telling Ianthe stories about her home back in India, these pieces of gossip would be akin to the Holy Bible itself.

Of course, Ianthe couldn't tell her this or she'd get a knock around the head, but she thought it all the same and in the end that was what mattered.

Nevertheless, despite being a  _ nasty little vermin _ , Ianthe was forced by Aunt Petunia to wake up two hours earlier, (disrupting her dream about a flying motorbike) than Dudley or Uncle Vernon and help her Aunt arrange all the presents and cook a breakfast of pancakes and chocolate milk for  _ Duddikins _

Placing the plate on the table, Ianthe let out a sigh, moving towards the sink and turning on the faucet, allowing the steady river of water to clean her hands of any excess pancake batter, the water washing it down the drain. The kitchen door creaked open, allowing a portly Uncle Vernon to make his way through the kitchen, casting a glance to Ianthe at the sink, he let out a bark of, “Brush your hair, girl.” by way of a morning greeting.

A large thundering could be heard from upstairs as Dudley stomped down the stairs, a pause -- and then the ritualistic thumping on the stair directly above the cupboard that Dudley did in hopes of covering Ianthe in saw dust. It never worked of course (Ianthe had learnt to rise early, one of the reasons Aunt Petunia got Ianthe to help her) but it was a pain to clean her blanket and bed sheet every night in case of the dust, as it caused Ianthe to become all itchy. Dudley burst through the door, a mop of blond hair and watery blue eyes and a rotund belly much like his father. Aunt Petunia often proclaimed that Dudley looked like an angel, whilst Ianthe would dispute that Dudley was more similar to a pig in a blond wig.

Ianthe passed a look over at the presents dispassionately the same time as Dudley, though he performed it with much more vigour, noticing that Dudley had gotten the new computer, the second television (for the kitchen, he had insisted) as well as a brand new just-on-the-market racing bike. Ianthe was at a dilemma over why Dudley wanted the racing bike when he was very fat and hated exercise -- that is, unless it involved punching people, and as it so happened, Ianthe was his favourite punching bag, it was actually during these escapes from her weekly punching time that she was rescued by Miss. Nirmala, who saw Dudley and his gang chasing her, offered her entrance to her shop.

Dudley however, keen in breaking her reminiscing, had finished counting his presents and was turning an interesting shade of red as Ianthe stood to pour Uncle Vernon's coffee, before retreating to her seat and slathered an unhealthy amount of jam on her toast.

"Thirty-six," he said, mouth quivering as his grubby hands clenched together, "That's two less than last year." Ianthe sensed the temper tantrum sure to come, and set in wolfing down her toast in case he upended the table, however, despite however much Ianthe despised Aunt Petunia, it seemed they possessed the same talent of sensing when a major Dudley tantrum was about to make an appearance and was quick to reassure her son, "You haven't counted Aunt Marge's present from under Mummy and Daddy's, sweetums, but we'll still get you another two presents today, at the zoo, is that alright, popkins?"

Dudley thought for a moment, his face turning back to his usual peachy skin tone unlike Ianthe's golden-bronze or Miss. Nirmila's caramel-brown. "So that'll be thirty...thirty..." he said at last, a pensive expression on his face, Ianthe wanted to cut in, say  _ thirty-nine _ , but she knew that the Dursley's would hate her showing up Dudley in anything, "Thirty-nine, darling," Aunt Petunia cut in, a warm smile on her face as she kissed Dudley's forehead as he sat down heavily in his chair, and for a quick moment Ianthe wondered if her mother would have done that, before Dudley said, "Alright then," before grabbing the nearest parcel, a mint green box wrapped in red ribbon, and ripped it up without care.

Uncle Vernon chortled, patting Dudley's back, as he set down his newspaper, "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley." The telephone rang as Aunt Petunia hurried away whilst Dudley was opening presents watched by a indulging Uncle Vernon and a reluctant Ianthe, who despite not wanting to, wondered why the Dursleys were so cruel as to get her to watch their son open his mountain-load of presents when she knew that she would receive one of Aunt Petunia’s clothes hangers at best.

After Dudley had unwrapped the racing bike, a cine-camera, a remote-control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games and a video recorder, Aunt Petunia came back in just as Dudley was half-way through unwrapping a golden wristwatch. “Bad news, Vernon,” she said, setting down a hand on her chair, “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take her.” she finished, jerking her head in Ianthe’s direction as the said pre-teen let out a breath of relief. Every year, without fail, Aunt Petunia would drop Ianthe off at Mrs. Figg’s place, a batty old lady who lived with her cats for company and age old chocolate cake in her fridge while The Dursleys, as well as Dudley and a friend would head off someplace fun, like the cinema, hamburger bars or even adventure parks. This year was the zoo and while Ianthe supposed she should feel sympathy for Mrs. Figg, she couldn’t bring herself to as it would be a whole year until she would have to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws and Tufty again.

“Now what?” asked Aunt Petunia, sending a furious glare Ianthe’s way as if Ianthe had caused it, and she would have, in the eyes of the Dursleys’. Dudley’s mouth had resorted to hanging open in horror as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon talked over the length of the table, “We could phone Marge.” suggested Uncle Vernon, but Ianthe recoiled in horror, not imagining that she would be able to take a whole day of dealing with Aunt Marge’s petty whining and unwanted opinions about how useless she was and how thankful she should be to her Samaritan brother and his wife.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl, and for good reason.” Aunt Petunia snapped, not noting Ianthe’s sigh of relief. The Dursley’s often talked about Ianthe this way, as if she wasn’t there --or rather something nasty that couldn’t understand them, like a slug, but Ianthe was too used to it to be actually bothered. In her opinion, if they ignored each other for the rest of their lives, it would by far the best birthday present Ianthe had ever received, but unfortunately, that dream of hers wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, at least, not until Ianthe was old enough to move out.

“What about what’s-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?”

“On holiday in Majorca.” She informed him.

“You could leave me with Miss. Nirmala.” Ianthe cut in, hoping beyond hope that they would agree, a perfect trip for Dudley and Ianthe out of their hair was perfect, but what surprised Ianthe was what Petunia said next, “What, and leave you with that hussy? It’s bad enough that you already spend an hour after school in her blasted shop, but leave you with her after finding out she played moves on poor Will? Ha! What would the neighbours say? Our reputation would already be in tatters.” Ianthe saw red and stood up, the chair toppling over, “Miss. Nirmala is not a hussy.” she hissed, “And she certainly does not  _ make moves _ on stupid William Smith!”

Petunia’s eyes narrowed as Vernon and Dudley watched in apprehension, wary of the situation. Despite being married together for a good many years, Vernon Dursley had rarely had many tiffs with Petunia who agreed with him on principle, but Petunia had a great many loud (and explosive) arguments with Ianthe, who, if Petunia’s angry muttering were to be believed, had her mother’s same explosive anger and Petunia’s own vindictive streak.

“Mind your tongue, girl, you’d do best to listen to me. You don't know what’s good for you, and it certainly isn’t that foreigner feeding you these dangerous ideas. William Smith is a good Christian man, who has a stable job, provides for his family and goes to Church every Sunday. There is no place for the word  _ stupid _ in that description, girl.” Ianthe fumed, a brazen fire lit in her eyes as Petunia looked away, the sight too familiar for liking, “Vernon, you understand we can’t leave her with that foreigner, yes?”

Vernon gulped and muttered a quiet, “Of course, Pet.” and tried his best to ignore the blazing hellfire-lit green eyes that still had the ability to burn even after being subjected to it many times. Really, the only one who had the ability to withstand it was Petunia. Demonic really, Vernon thought, a part of being a freak but still very effective.

Petunia nodded resolutely and turned to her niece, “You’re coming with us. There’s no need for you to go anywhere near that hussy, you understand, girl?” Ianthe didn’t deign to respond and marched out the kitchen, bending down to enter her cupboard and slam the door shut just as the doorbell rang shrilly.

Petunia tutted and made her way over to the door, exchanging greetings with Piers Polkiss’ mother and ushered Dudley’s friend inside. Petunia turned to them and spoke, “Dudley, why don’t you and Piers watch the telly. We leave in an hour.”

Piers watched her leave, her back taught and her heels making sharp clicking sounds. Piers turned over to his best friend and opened his mouth, “What, no Duddikins today?” Dudley glared moodily at him and answered, a pudgy hand coming to scratch his stomach, “Ianthe is coming with us.” Ignoring Piers’ fallen jaw, he continued. “Mum and Ianthe had a fight. Ianthe went all scary-eyes again, so today’s gonna suck. If she explodes on us, I’m throwing you under the bus.”

Piers winced, phantom pain resurfacing from the last time he tempted Ianthe when she went all scary-eyes. He had those bruises for a week, as well as nightmares to haunt him for life, “They’re very… demonic, aren’t they? Bit like your mum’s when she found we were bullying Miss. Patricia’s little girl.”

“Yeah, I still wonder who her husband ran away with though, Mum wouldn't tell me. But we gotta be extra careful with Ianthe, ‘kay Piers? Maybe if we’re nice enough, she won’t explode and use her freak powers to hurt us, right?”

“I dunno, Duds. Let’s just be extra careful. Do you wanna play Rocket Cannons now though?”

Dudley nodded and made his way upstairs with Piers following behind, being  _ extra _ careful on the step directly above the cupboard under the stairs.

* * *

Ianthe meanwhile reached under her pillow, bringing the treasured picture of her mum and Severus out from underneath it. The metal grate brought shuttered light onto it, illuminating the red hair and clenched hands, “Hi mum.” she whispered, her eyes glowing in the dark, “I miss you. I got in an argument with Aunt Petunia again, but it was ‘cause she called Miss. Nirmala a hussy! Can you believe it? ... I wonder if you ever got in fights with her,” _ All the time, darling. _ “Or if you even liked her.”  _ I loved her always. _ “Did Severus like her? …”  _ Certainly not. _ “She called Miss. Nirmala a foreigner. Would she have called dad a foreigner, if he was alive?”  _ She would have called him not good enough for me. _ “ … I wonder what he looked like. Aunt Petunia says I have his hair. Do you think so? Do I look like dad? Or do I look more like you?”  _ You look like my darling daughter who I died to protect.  _ “Did you like my dad, Sev? Or did you hate him, like Aunt Petunia? ”

Sighing once again, the demonic glow near extinct now, she slipped the photo away just as the door opened. Aunt Petunia stood there stiffly, her lip curled as she looked down at her niece. “Get ready. We leave in ten minutes.” before strutting away, her heels clicking. Ianthe glared and muttered angrily, pulling on a decent dress and a pair of leggings before pulling on her shoes.

Slamming her cupboard door open, she got out, following Uncle Vernon out the door as Dudley and Piers got in the car. Uncle Vernon looked like he wanted to say something and making sure Dudley and Piers were distracted, dragged her to the side of the car, and grabbed her sides painfully tight. "Listen here, girl, Petunia may have ignored that display inside with…with your freakish glowing eyes, but I won't! Any funny business -- anything at all, even one slip -- and you're in that cupboard until Christmas, you hear?"

Ianthe growled between clenched teeth, forcing out her answer, a deep loathing burning once again, "Nothing will happen. Honest." Vernon grunted, a disbelieving look pointed at her once again ominously lit eyes before he quickly looked away, unable to hold the burning gaze, as he let her go before turning to get into the car as Petunia hurried out the house.

It wasn't that surprising that he didn't believe her, it was just that the strangest things happened to Ianthe and she wished she knew why. From that one time she turned Miss. Nirmala's rude customer's hair bogey green, or when Aunt Petunia, frustrated at never being able to tame the jungle that was Ianthe's hair, had resorted to chopping all her hair off, making her look practically bald except for her front that was  _ "meant to hide that horrible scar."  _ Dudley had laughed himself silly, which left Ianthe in a fouler mood than ever, and resulted in his computer somehow breaking down (don't ask her) and him sending speculative glances her way for the rest of the day. She spent a sleepless night with imaginings of what everyone at school would say, she was already laughed at because of her scruffy clothes that Aunt Petunia got from the nearest Oxfam as well as her Sellotaped glasses, but paired with her hair, she'd be the laughing stock of the whole school. 

Of course, come next morning her hair was back to its normal waist-length mess, which resulted in a week-long stay in the cupboard despite Ianthe's protests couldn't explain how it happened (she suspected it was her odd abilities at work), but Ianthe was far too glad that she had her hair back to worry that much. Then there was that one time she was running away from Dudley's gang and then she found herself on the roof. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had received an extremely angry letter from the headmistress that Ianthe had been climbing school buildings, but Ianthe had shouted that she had only been trying to jump behind the bins, and by some miracle, they had believed her, but they did have a sort of glazed look in their eye.

But today, while Ianthe was still pissed at Aunt Petunia for calling Miss. Nirmala, a hussy, she was quite interested in the zoo. She wondered if she would spot a giraffe, so she could compare how similar Aunt Petunia and the giraffe looked side by side. Still, it wasn't every day that she went somewhere new that wasn't her cupboard, Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room, Miss. Nirmala’s shop (called  _ Chakrabarti's Delhi Delights _ ) or school.

While Uncle Vernon drove, he did his usual driving routine: complain. He liked to complain to Aunt Petunia, who would listen with a sympathetic ear to her darling husband. Uncle Vernon liked to complain about many things, people at work, Ianthe, the council, Ianthe, the bank and Ianthe were some of his favourite subjects. This morning, motorbikes were the focus of his ire.

"...roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a bright electric blue motorbike overtook them.

Ianthe, knowing what she said would raise her Uncle's blood pressure lounged back, "I had a dream about a motorbike." Her eyes gleaming as smirk pulled across her mouth, "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned around, throwing caution wind as he turned around in his seat and yelled, his moustache nearly flying off his face, "MOTORBIKES DON'T FLY!"

Ianthe peered back intently at him as if she was discussing the weather and not flying motorbikes, "I know they don't. It was only a dream though, so it shouldn't really matter, should it? After all, the subconscious mind conjures up the oddest things, doesn't it?" Uncle Vernon bristled, the green eyes daring him to contradict her. "No." He said at last. "No, it doesn't matter. And we'll speak of it no more, bah! Flying motorbikes, who would've believed the thought? Girls got an active imagination, aren't I right Petunia?"

Petunia nodded, lips pursed as the traffic started again and Piers and Dudley continued their conversation as if nothing had happened.

Ianthe however, looked out the window, not even trying to fit in the picture of pretend normalcy. If they hated Ianthe asking questions, a key example being of when Ianthe had first asked how she had got the lightning scar on her collar and Petunia had glared and said, "In the car crash when you parents died. And don't ask questions!" She had snapped, returning back to her knitting (though Ianthe had wondered how the cut glass could have gotten to her collarbone), then the Dursleys absolutely detested Ianthe talking about something acting as it shouldn't -- even if it were a dream or cartoon. They seemed to think that she would get dangerous ideas.

Really, the only reason Uncle Vernon had left it at that was because he was trying to bring a sense of normalcy back; a normalcy where Ianthe was subject to the Dursleys drivel and they lorded over her.

It was a very sunny Sunday, and the zoo was packed when they arrived. The children laughed form inside and the Dursley's seemed to get their vigour back, Dudley shoving Ianthe out of the way as he hurried to choose his ice cream. Aunt Petunia, as always, brightened up when she saw Dudley enjoying his ice cream so much, cooing over him as Uncle Vernon set about letting Piers decide what ice cream he wanted and buying him one as well. They didn't have time to hurry Ianthe away as the smiling blonde-haired, blue-eyed lady in the ice cream van asked what Ianthe wanted. Ianthe told her a quiet but earnest “Thank you,” as Uncle Vernon glared at her and bought a cheap lemon ice lolly, and truthfully it wasn't that bad.

They walked around the zoo for a bit, and Ianthe was right in her assumption that Aunt Petunia looked remarkably like the giraffe that towered over them. She also spotted a gorilla that looked a lot like Dudley, only the gorilla wasn't blonde and instead a dark black, like the colour of Severus' long draping hair.

Ianthe had a very interesting and enjoyable morning, if she ignored the Dursley's presence, and she did. She walked a little ways off from them, wary of the not-so-surreptitious looks that Dudley and Piers had kept sending her after they had spotted her glowing eyes dimming as she enjoyed the day. She hoped they wouldn't resort to chasing her again. They ate in the zoo restaurant, a place filled with plastic animals and dark green wallpaper, and when Dudley had a tantrum about his Knickerbocker Glory not being big enough; Ianthe had been allowed to eat his old one as he gorged on the new twice the original size served by a nervous waitress.

Ianthe should have known it was too good to last.

After lunch, as it was inevitable, Ianthe was forced to make her way towards the reptile house. It was cool and dark in her, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind fortified glass, were all types of reptilians, different species of both lizards and snakes roaming and crawling around on pieces of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers had wanted to find huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. However, once they had finally found the most venomous snake in the reptile house, which was big enough to wrap its body around Uncle Vernon, they realised it was in fact fast asleep, and bathing in the sunlight from the windows above its enclosure.

Dudley stared avidly with his nose pressed against the glass at its great, green and brown coils glistened as it lounged on a large piece of wood. Wood chips were littered around it as it bathed in the sunlight, seemingly unbeknownst to Dudley’s whining.

“Make it move.” he whined, at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped against the glass with his knuckle, but the snake dozed on. “Do it again.” Dudley demanded, and once again, Uncle Vernon, wrapped smartly against the glass, but the snake didn’t even budge.

Dudley scuffed his shoe against the enclosure, let out a whinging, “I’m bored.” and shuffled on, Piers and his parents following behind him like lap dogs as Ianthe shook her head in disgust before turning back to the snake. Ianthe wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself, no company except stupid people drumming their fingers against the glass, much like Aunt Petunia drumming her knuckles against Ianthe’s cupboard every day.

Ianthe stared intently at the snake, noticing its dark green scales and the rare flecks of brown against its skin. As if it realised her burning stare, its eyes flicked open, the snake's eyes a burning red. It stared intently at Ianthe, raising its head to be at Ianthe’s eye level. Opening its mouth, it let out a long, protruding hiss,  _ “Greetingsssss, Hatchling.” _ she hissed, eyes calm as Ianthe swerved her head around both sides, to see if anyone else had seen, which it appeared to be that they hadn’t. Ianthe leaned forward eagerly, her gaze burning at the new discovery,  _ “You can talk?” _ The snake let out a hissing laugh,  _ “Only to you. And my Masssssster. Those who ssssspeak the Ancient Ssssserpent Tongue. Parseltongue, the outsiderssss call it.” _

Ianthe’s mouth opened again,  _ “Outsidersssss?” _ The snake nodded,  _ “Outsidersssss.” _ she reaffirmed,  _ “Non-ssssspeakers. The ignorant, the unworthy, the Mugglesssss.” _ Ianthe grinned and asked another question, _ “What are the Mugglesssss?” _ The snake instead leaned and slithered forward, coming close to the glass as she gazed at Ianthe, it felt as if she was searching her soul for something, something specific.  _ “What isss your title?”  _ the reptile said instead,  _ “What does your nesssst call you?” _

Ianthe felt a burning in her scar, and her hand came up to rub her collarbone, trying to soothe the pain, and Ianthe felt as if the snake was greatly satisfied. “ _ Ianthe. Though my nessssst is full of fanglesssss sssssnakes, who are content to live off of my hunting and call me girl and freak.” _ she murmured, eyes unnecessarily heavy as she gazed back at the snake, feeling as if they had an unidentifiable connection.

The snake hissed angrily, _ “Ssssspinelessss nesssstmatessss, you have. Living off the kill of a Hatchling. Your name, it means Violet Coloured Flower. A sssssstrong name. Named after a colour of royalty and the colour of dreamsssss. You will be powerful, Hatchling.” _

Ianthe let out an aggressive hiss, unbeknownst to anyone but her and the snake.  _ “Of courssssssse I will. There is no doubt of that, I will ssssstrive and conquer all, and lay wassssssste to my fanglessssss nessssstmatessss. But, I wonder what your n... title issssss, then?” _

The snake let out an amused laugh,  _ “Temper, must be controlled, Hatchling. Ssssso much like my Massssster when he wasssssss a Hatchling, though, to me, he sssssstill isssssss. You do well in already talking like a mighty sssssserpent. But fine, if you ssssso demand it, I will tell you my title. My Masssssster callsssss me --”  _ But they were interrupted by a deafening shout, startling them both, “DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T  _ BELIEVE  _ WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley waddled (much like a penguin, Ianthe thought) as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast at all. “Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Ianthe in the ribs, which sent the snake into a great hissing fit once she saw Ianthe lying abruptly on the floor.

What happened next was a blur, one moment Dudley and Piers stood nose-to-glass and the next, a blinding fury overcame Ianthe because _ couldn't they see that they were agitating the snake, which was hissing threats of bodily harm and interesting ways of mutilation?  _ One moment was all it took, before Piers and Dudley were falling over into the enclosure at the sudden disappearance of the glass and the 12 foot snake was already uncoiling itself rapidly.

Ianthe gasped and rocketed upwards as the snake, revelling in the mayhem, let out great hissy laughs. Nipping at a nearby child’s ankle that screamed in terror and burst into tears and ran towards any which way, the snake turned Ianthe’s way, leaning forward,  _ “Thank you, Hatchling. I am extremely pleassssed. I have not had thisssss much fun ssssssince the raidssss, or sssssince I got to eat my Masssssster’sssss filthy followerssssss. But you were right, your nessssstmate was cowardly, and fanglessssss, pussssshing you out of the way to come closssssser to me. Ha! He did not realissssse he only came clossssser to the beassssst that I am. You avenged yoursssself beautifully, I am proud, but I will take my leave. My Massssster no doubt waitsssss for my return, after all, I have been gone a great many weekssssss. Sssssstupid Mugglesssss keeping me in that glasssss cage.” _

Ianthe groped for the words so far out of reach,  _ “Wait!” _ she hissed,  _ “Tell me,” _ Ianthe demanded,  _ “What issss it that your Massssster callssssss you? _ ”

The snake turned her head, luminous red eyes staring back at Ianthe’s glowing demonic green eyes, her beautiful scales glittering viscerally in the sunlight, colours of great deep green and rich brown lighting up.

_ “…Nagini.” _ she said at last, leaving the reptile house at last as time seemed to resume around themselves as people bolted for the exits and a stunned Ianthe was left in Nagini’s wake.

The keeper rushed out and kept muttering disbelievingly, “The glass, where did it go?”

After that debacle, the zoo director himself brewed a cup of strong sweet tea for Aunt Petunia while he apologised over and over, probably hoping that Uncle Vernon didn’t sue him for all the damage inflicted emotionally and physically, as well as all the other people who had been present. Pier and Dudley could only gibber, but to Ianthe this was a whole adventure. She was trying not to grin as Dudley blubbered to Aunt Petunia. It seemed to Ianthe that they were all greatly exaggerating, as Nagini seemed to only be nipping playfully at the passer-by’s ankles at worst.

But, by the time they made their way back to Uncle Vernon’s car, which had somehow sustained multiple scratches and was even a little dented (probably courtesy of Nagini, something Ianthe revelled in), Dudley was telling them about how Nagini had almost bitten his leg off (which she probably would have done, if she had the time, seeing as she had said she had eaten full grown men before) , while Piers swore that Nagini tried to squeeze him to death (which was silly, seeing as if Nagini wanted to eat Piers, and Ianthe didn’t know anyone who would, Nagini would just inject venom into him.) But worst of all, in Ianthe’s opinion, was when Piers managed to calm down enough to say, “Ianthe was talking to it, weren’t you, Ianthe?”

Uncle Vernon had waited until Piers was safely out of the house before he started on Ianthe. He gazed at her for a moment before turning around, and Petunia trailing him, took a swig of brandy straight from the bottle. Realising it was going to be one of those nights, though they were far in between, Ianthe retreated to her cupboard and tried her best to fall asleep, despite the prickling reminder that a drunk Uncle Vernon was bad news.

Willing the door locked with all her might, she heard the gratifying click and tried to sleep… not soundly, but at least better know that there was a door between her and the inevitable breaking of objects.

It was during these times that Ianthe was glad that Aunt Petunia hated alcohol.

* * *

Many unknown hours later, while Ianthe lay awake, her stomach rumbled, but Ianthe did not dare and try to open the door in case Aunt Petunia was still awake. Ianthe could count on Uncle Vernon and Dudley to be out like lights, but Aunt Petunia stayed awake later during stressful days.

Ianthe had lived with the Dursley’s for ten long, miserable and tortuous years. Always forced to be pinched and prodded by Dudley, be lorded over by Aunt Petunia and commandeered about like an unwanted pet by Uncle Vernon, she had always been forced to deal with their inadequacy and her only salvation had been the friend she had found in Miss. Nirmala.

Yet, despite soon turning eleven, never once in Ianthe’s life had she remembered any memories from the car crash. She supposed she could’ve been too young to remember, but that didn’t explain why, when she strained her memories during long hours locked in the cupboard, she recalled a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light, a burning pain in her collarbone scar and a distant echo of a cold and cruel laugh. She supposed the green could have been the crash (however improbable), but she didn’t understand why her scar always burned or where that cruel and cold laugh came from, for the life of her (after all, who laughed when they were about to die?)

Without that photo album Ianthe had found in Dudley’s second bedroom, she probably never would have known that her mother had beautiful red locks or that Ianthe had the same eyes as her. She wouldn’t have known about Severus, her mother’s best friend, and someone Ianthe planned to meet someday so that she could find out more about her mother and maybe even her dad, providing Severus was still alive. She would scour the world to find him, if that was what it took. And yet, Ianthe did not have a single picture of her father, a picture of both her parents together,  _ happy _ , or a picture of even her mother as an adult or Severus or her dad, whose only physical trait Ianthe knew about was that she had his hair.

Yet, Ianthe liked to believe that he loved her mother and herself unconditionally,  _ (Of course.)  _ that he would’ve died to protect them,  _ (I did.)  _ and that he was proud of her.  _ (Forever and ever, Prongslet.) _

When Ianthe was younger, she had hoped that some unknown relation would come and whisk her away, but as the years progressed, she lost hope of that happening. Yet sometimes, Ianthe sometimes thought (or maybe hoped in her heart of hearts) that people on the streets knew her. Very strange ones too.

A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while she had been out shopping with her Aunt and Dudley, and after furiously questioning Ianthe if she knew the man; Aunt Petunia had whisked them out the shop without buying anything. One time, a wild looking woman had waved merrily to them on the bus and a bald man in a long purple coat had actually shaken Ianthe’s hand on the bus, leaving her bewildered, and then he had walked away without a word. The strangest thing about these people though, was that when Ianthe tried to get a closer look they all seemed to vanish without a trace.

At school, no one wanted to be associated with oddball Ianthe Lily Potter, with her baggy clothes, sellotaped glasses, messy, waist-length mop of curly hair and demonic green eyes, because they all knew Dudley and his gang hated her, and no one wanted to be on his gang’s bad side.

Ianthe was okay with that, though it did get a little lonely sometimes, yet sometimes Ianthe felt like that there was more out there than she could possibly conceive, something bigger and waiting to be realised, and that she felt she was at the centre of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAGINI HAS MADE AN APPEARANCE!!!!
> 
> i fucking love that snake. just leaving pure terror and mayhem in her wake, like you do. i was really excited with her appearance, and hope you all are too. also, because i said she has red eyes, it doesn't mean voldie (who is not Tom) is watching through her eyes, i just think that as a horcrux they would have some, if any, similar physical features. so for Nagini, it was her eyes.
> 
> for translations for the italic foreign words here they are:
> 
> Mashallah: what god has willed, by Allah’s (God’s) grace.  
> Jalebi: a sticky South Asian pastry/sweet that’s fried in oil.  
> Paki: a racial slur in Britain towards those of South Asian descent (India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.)  
> Mishti: the general term for sweet in Bengali.  
> Ras Malia: a mishti that is bathed in milk with either pistachio or almond nuts (I prefer almonds).  
> Meri jaan: can mean ‘my life.’ Or ‘my heart/love’, but in this context, it means ‘my darling.’ 
> 
> as a desi myself, i absolutely love ras malia, is it goodness all around! jalebi I like, but definitely wouldn’t be able to eat five in one go like Ianthe as most mishti’s are all very concentrated in sugar and sometimes leave me unable to stomach even a forkful of them. jalebi is more crunchy and sweet than purely sugar. ras malia has a subtle sweetness, which paired with the milk, i love. 
> 
> also, you are no way telling me that people didn't sue the zoo.
> 
> any who, i hope you enjoyed this chapter, which I slaved over during the weekend and which was not beta-ed. i hope I did good though. Also, don’t go spouting racial slurs anytime soon like stupid William Smith as he’s a bigoted arsehole. we all need to stick together in times like these.
> 
> ALSO, ELEVEN PAGES OF WRITING.
> 
> BUT ANYWAY, hope you all have a brilliant day!
> 
> \-- InkwardSpots


	3. the letters from no one, magic and dudley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianthe receives a letter, Dudley want to know too and they take a impromptu road trip, when finally, they hear a unexpected visitor.

Ianthe knew it was one of those dreams again.

The dreams with the little boy called Tom, and his time spent at the orphanage,  _ Wool's Orphanage, _ he had called it.

This time, it was cold and dark, and Tom (he looked younger here, four or five at the most, yet startlingly handsome, even so young) was locked in a dark cellar, much like her cupboard, his eyes wary even then and starving by the looks of it.

She didn't like it; she didn't like how much this boy reminded her of herself, figment of her imagination or no. She wanted someone to help him, like she had always wanted someone to help her in her younger years, yet no one did, and for that Ianthe had always cursed the women opening the door, a lady by the name of Mrs. Cole.

She stared at Tom in hate, disgust and horror and trepidation on all present on her face, “Tom.” she started, “I hope you’ve learnt your lesson. Know that I won’t tolerate you displaying your devilish powers to the rest of us, understand?”

Tom only sneered at her as she scrutinized his face, “Of course. Don’t let my superiority burden your simple-minded ways.” Mrs. Cole’s face burned red before she lifted her hand, slamming it down on his face, sending him into a coughing fit, “Mind your words, boy.” she spat out, “With an attitude like that, no one would want to adopt you, not that I would let them. Burden, you are, wouldn’t do well to our reputation to pass off devilish boys to our visitors. Head upstairs and get dressed. The Priest’s to arrive in an hour.” 

Tom inhaled shakily, “No… no-no-no, you can’t! Not again, I won’t allow it! The Priest can burn for all I care, but I’m not going near him, not again!” He yelled a rare moment of panic, and how he wished that he hadn’t said or shown anything of his panic and horror as Mrs. Cole smiled cruelly. 

“Oh, I can and I will, Tom.” she crooned, “Best to head up, you still have to prepare, and for fuck’s sake, clean up your mess.” She said, gesturing noncommittally to the wreckages of day’s old dried vomit and piss on the cellar floor. When Tom refused to move, she grabbed his arm and set about pulling him through the door, ignoring his screams of “Let me go!” and “Please, not again!” 

How much did Ianthe want to knock Mrs. Cole to the floor and give her a good beating, like she did to Tom sometimes, and yet, like the many times before, Ianthe’s vision blurred and the vision of a screaming Tom being dragged out slipped from her mind as she awoke to the banging on her door and the final click of the lock finally being opened by the Dursleys’.

The escape of Nagini had earned Ianthe her longest punishment yet (and that was saying something about the time she had, in frustration and anger at Petunia, turned all her coats a horrible vibrant green, through use of her abilities), by the time she had been finally let out, only a week ago, the summer holidays had already started, and while she was excited about that, she was also more wary and cautious of Dudley’s friends who would visit each day, wondering if they would resort to Ianthe-hunting once again, but for the time being, they seemed sufficiently entertained.

So, for most part, Ianthe spent the majority of the summer wandering around the local neighbourhood, being met with suspicious glares and hushed whisperings. She would have entertained herself by hanging out with Miss. Nirmala, but she had been forced to set off to a confectioner’s conference in Brussels, and she had only known this as Aunt Petunia had barred Miss. Nirmala from saying goodbye, despite the solid banging on the door following the hour after their explosive argument. 

After that -- and the wary stares they kept getting from No. 8 -- she’d finally caved, dragged Ianthe out the cupboard and hissed some unintelligible words to Miss. Nirmala that caused her face to turn stony and lead Ianthe outside, hugging her goodbye and kissing her forehead, ignoring Petunia’s burning gaze, after that, Miss. Nirmala spoke, “Ianthe, call me, if anything happens, okay? Oh, and check the mail. Something might be sent.” She had grinned, before making her way into the taxi with a confused but grinning Ianthe waving her away, well, before Petunia had dragged Ianthe back into her cupboard and extended her stay by a week, that is.

However, there was some hope at the end of the summer. Ianthe was heading to secondary school, and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t have to go there with Dudley. He was joining Smeltings, Uncle Vernon’s old school, along with his best friend Piers’ Polkiss, whilst Ianthe would be attending Stonewall High, the local comprehensive school, a large building of all concrete and a swinging sign displaying its name and for some absurd reason, Dudley thought this very funny. 

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet on the first day at Stonewall,” he told Ianthe. “Want to come upstairs and practise?” “No thanks,” Ianthe had said, “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick.” and then she ran, before Dudley could figure out what she’d said.

It sometimes got a bit boring with no one to entertain herself with, so, within the first week out the cupboard, she’d set about finding a snake that she could talk to -- only, the sad thing was, snakes weren’t exactly native to Britain after one of the passing teenagers who’d smoke cigarettes on the local Tesco corners pointed that out. The realization had caused Ianthe’s eyes to widen, and after that, her hands came up to cover her face and scream in embarrassment into them.

Oscar, who she sometimes chatted with while he smoked his cigar called over Axmed -- who was probably selling some illegal substances -- came strolling by, and happened to hear the tail end of their conversation,  _ “Abeeso?  _ Why on Earth would you think you would find one in  _ Ingiriiska?” _ Ianthe flushed red again, playfully shoving Axmed, “It was a valid thought!” she pouted out, sending the fifteen year old (Oscar) and sixteen-and-a-half year-old ( Axmed ) in to fits (it was so not funny!). 

_ “Shimbir _ ,” the special nickname meant for Ianthe made its way through his tongue, “You will find no good snakes here. It is not like home, like Somalia. It is too civilized, too cold and they are not welcome here. If one were to cross the ocean to come here, they would need a special goal, or, they would be forced to, by those bigger: humans. Back home, they are beautiful. Their scales -- they glimmer… and they kill all grandfather’s cows, let us not forget!” he joked, sending Oscar, Ianthe and himself into laughter. 

Rarely, if ever, did Axmed talk of his home in Somalia after he had fled during the early beginnings of the civil war in Somalia after they had burned down his whole village. Somehow, he had made his way into Britain, and after being taken in as a refugee, had been placed in a foster home and been sent to school at the age of ten. So often he acted as if the burning of his village had not bothered him, and yet, earlier this year, when they had officially told of the beginning of the Somalian Civil War, he had seemed ever so sombre.

Still, after they had a good laugh on her naive thought on finding a native snake in Britain, and a lady passing by glared furiously at them and especially Ianthe (no doubt fuelling the rumours of the already delinquent young girl), Ianthe bid them goodbye, and set on wondering where Nagini and her Master could be now. 

Once Ianthe had made her way home, she had been sent straight to bed (“Mrs. O’Hara said she spotted you with the local riffraff, girl! Until you learn what you mean on our reputation, you’re not getting out of that cupboard, understand?”) Of course, they had broken their promise in the morning seeing as they couldn’t possibly let Petunia cook after her tiring day with the local Ladies Tea Society from yesterday as well as getting Dudley’s school uniform for Smeltings. And did Ianthe have a shock in the morning!

When Dudley had entered the kitchen, Ianthe was sure she’d cracked two ribs from trying to not laugh and trying to suppress letting tears of mirth stroll by. In all his glory, Dudley stood proud, decked in a maroon tailcoat, orange knickerbockers and a flat sort of hat called a boater. He carried a knobbly stick around as Petunia and Vernon talked jovially in the background. 

They took their seats as Ianthe carried the breakfast onto the table, jumping slightly over the stick that Dudley had positioned to knock her over with. Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life while Aunt Petunia burst into tears, saying that she couldn’t believe it was her  _ Ickle Duddikins, _ all grownup and handsome. At this, Dudley had turned bright red, patting his mother on the arm as she squeezed the life out of him and Ianthe shook her head in disgust and…  _ longing, _ she supposed. For years, she had wanted to see her mother smile at her like she had in the picture, yet it would never come true. She had wanted her dad to day  _ ‘I’m proud of you.’  _ and yet, he never would, because they were dead. 

After that, Ianthe had remained sullen, the short-lived enjoyment in seeing Dudley clothed in those horrible clothes evaporating into thin air. Once again, the next morning, Ianthe had been granted a rarely allowed lie in. 

Yawning, she had got dressed and washed her face, making her way into the kitchen to start cooking the breakfast, but she had been assaulted by a horribly pungent smell, something like rotten eggs and spoiled milk, coming from a large bowl Aunt Petunia stood over, a clothespin pinching her nose shut as she stirred a ladle in the bowl.

Coming over, she found a collection of dirty grey rags. “What’s this?” Ianthe had asked, poking the water before quickly retreating after it let out a great heat on her finger. Aunt Petunia’s lips tightened at the inevitable question, “Your new school uniform,” she had said.

Ianthe looked into the bowl again, looking at it sceptically. ”Oh,” she said finally, “I didn’t realise it had to be so wet.” Aunt Petunia’s nostrils flared as she answered, “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped, “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things grey for you. It’ll look like everyone else’s once I’ve finished.” 

Ianthe eyed the rags again, seriously doubting it. She grabbed the milk jar on the way to the table, noticing Aunt Petunia had already made breakfast, a first for her. As she pondered over if she and her Aunt had seen the same thing on the bowl, she also wondered what she would like on her first day at Stonewall High -- like she was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably. 

Dudley and Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen, both of them wrinkling their noses at the smell of Ianthe’s uniform -- not that she could blame them, loathe as she was to admit it. Uncle Vernon took a seat and started reading his newspaper, whilst Dudley -- who had taken to carrying his Smelting’s stick around everywhere -- set about banging it on the table and occasionally trying to hit Ianthe’s shins from underneath the table. 

They heard the click of the letter-box and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the post, Dudley.” Uncle Vernon grunted out from behind his paper, turning over to the economics page.

“Make Ianthe get it,” Dudley whined, revelling in the glare Ianthe sent his way. 

“Get the post Ianthe,” Uncle Vernon said, tutting at the once again rising unemployment levels. 

“Make Dudley get it,” Ianthe viciously replied, her eyes glowing slightly, not that Dudley noticed as she tried rapidly to calm herself down. It took a great amount of effort to get her eyes glowing, and she did not want Dudley to know that such a childish jab had that effect on her. 

“Poke her with your Smelting’s stick Dudley.” Uncle Vernon said, recoiling in horror as he happened upon the book review page about  _ ‘The Hobbit’ _ a children’s classic, they said. 

Ianthe narrowly missed the Smelting stick and made her way out, but not before sticking her tongue at Dudley, which he returned, and missing Aunt Petunia’s sigh of  _ “Children!  _ They have no manners at all, not even Duddikins; bring out the worst in each other.” 

Mulishly making her way to the front door, now calmer and more level-headed -- but could she even argue that she had ever been level-headed in the first place? -- She bent down to collect the letters the Dursley’s had received, never her. 

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from dreaded Aunt Marge, who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill -- probably an electricity one, from the amount of hours Dudley spent on his electronics -- and a letter -- a letter for Ianthe!

Ianthe’s heart raced, taking in the heavyset paper, and turning it over, she found a symbol; a lion,  _ proud  _ and  _ bold  _ and  **brave** ( _ Gryffindor _ , a voice whispered), a badger,  _ fierce  _ and  _ loyal  _ and  **just** ( _ Hufflepuff _ , the voice said once more.) an eagle,  _ wisdom  _ and  _ wit  _ and  **understanding** ( _ Ravenclaw _ , the all too familiar voice said, and Ianthe felt as if she knew it, only younger,) and finally, a snake, much like Nagini, one that she felt that she had seen before, maybe in a memory or dream, with its fangs out on display and coiling body,  _ cunning  _ and  _ ambition  _ and  **trueness** ( _ Slytherin _ , it said again,  _ and… home. _ ) that all surrounded a large letter  _ ‘H’ _ .

_ Tom? _ She thought before she was brought out of her reverie by Uncle Vernon’s yell to hurry up. Casting another glance at the letter: 

_ Miss. I. Potter _

_ 4 Privet Drive _

_ Little Whinging _

_ Surrey _

She made haste towards the kitchen, hoping and wishing that they wouldn’t take her letter away, not when there was a chance that someone knew about her, knew about her parents, even!

She entered the kitchen, handing over the postcard and brown letter, taking her seat and hoping they wouldn’t notice her letter and herself, and even though she knew that they would find it only too easy to snatch it away and never let her see it again, she couldn’t spend the whole day waiting until she was in the safety of her cupboard to open the letter.

And just as suddenly, it was snatched away, grubby hands close in around it as Ianthe let out a  _ “Hey!” _ Dudley stuck his tongue out, before dragging her to his bedroom by the wrist. 

Finally wrenching her wrist free, she massaged it as she turned to Dudley, hands on her hips as she hissed out her anger, “And what do you think you’re doing? That’s my letter, my property! I want to read it!” Dudley let her yell before talking, “No. You live in the Dursley’ house and you’re not a Dursley, so I want to know what’s in the letter too, Ianthe! Let me read the letter with you -- after all, who'd want to send  _ you  _ a letter when they could send one to  _ me? _ \-- and I won’t tell mum or dad, deal?” he asked, grubby hands stretched out. 

Ianthe thought it over in her head. All she had to do was let Dudley read it with her -- what harm could the letter possibly have in its contents? -- And he wouldn’t tell his parents. He could still snitch on her, but that’d be sorted if she scared him a bit. “Fine.” she grouched out, meeting his hand as they performed a handshake. 

They took a seat on the duvet-covered double bed, sure that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were busy for the moment, as Ianthe let Dudley admire the strange wax seal, him proclaiming that the lion was  _ ‘wicked’  _ and the snake  _ ‘brilliant’ _ . 

“Why didn’t you like Nagini then?” she had asked, perfectly fine with teasing Dudley if he was at least decent in his rare moments of no annoyance. “Nagini?” he had asked, coming back with a pocketknife that he had nicked from his dad, deciding that the wax seal was too cool to break. “The snake.” she clarified, “Her name was Nagini.” as she watched him slowly break the seal, most, if not all, intact.

“You really spoke to it?!” he gasped out, pocketknife cluttering to the carpeted floor, “I thought Piers was pulling my leg when he told me.” Ianthe sniffed, pulling the opened letter closer to her, “I  _ was  _ talking to it. There was a reason why I missed the last month of school, y’know.” 

“Right,” he said awkwardly, rubbing his chubby neck and remembering the loud bangs of breaking objects and his wondering if mum and Ianthe were safe downstairs.

“Now,” she said, “Let's open the letter, I’m dying to know what it’s about! I wonder if it’s Severus, maybe he finally found out where I live?” she said, drawing the letter out of its envelope, “Severus?” Dudley had started, “Who’s Severu....what?!” he yelped out, reading the letter eagerly with Ianthe by his side as they took in its writing. 

* * *

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

**Headmaster:** Albus Dumbledore

_ (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc. ,Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed, of Wix) _

__

_ Dear Miss. Potter, _

_ We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 _ _ st _ _ September. We await your owl no later the 31 _ _ st  _ _ October. _

_ Yours Sincerely, _

_ Minerva McGonagall _

**Deputy Headmistress**

* * *

Dudley and Ianthe stared at it for a good long minute, taking in the words  _ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  _ “Someone’s gone round the bend, they have. You,  _ a witch _ , Ianthe! There’s no such thing as witches  _ or  _ wizards, no such thing as  _ magic! _ Dad and mum say so.” Dudley finally said, looking at the letter in amazement. Ianthe held the letter close to her chest, finding the list of items she needed to attend Hogwarts. “Look,” she said, showing him the letter, “Look, what it says,  _ The Standard Book of Spells _ …  _ Magical Drafts and Potions _ …  _ Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them _ ... a wand, a cauldron, hey -- you can even get an owl as a pet! And  _ broomsticks _ , Dudley!” 

The rotund boy stared in awe at all the equipment needed, because it was magic, something his parents would deny till their dying day that existed but… “Why would mum and dad  _ lie? _ It’s so  _ cool! _ ’“ Ianthe snorted in amusement, wondering if the contents of the letters were true, “Why  _ wouldn’t  _ they Duddikins? They try so hard to be normal, it’s no wonder they’re scared of magic. Scared of  _ me  _ and what I can do.”

Dudley stared at the girl for a moment, all bones and messy hair, demonic green eyes and an odd scar on her collar that he had only gleamed once before, “You really think that you’re a witch? You think maybe that’s why you can do... all that freaky -- no, magic?” 

“Well, it certainly makes lots of things add up, doesn’t it? Why I can do all those odd things, like that time I broke your computer --” -- Dudley interrupted her with a “So it  _ was  _ you!” -- “-- and it also explains why Aunt Petunia hates me so much, because my mum must’ve been magic too, don't cha think? Maybe she was scared of magic, so she was scared of my mum?” 

Dudley turned towards her again, grabbing the letter, “I don’t think mum was scared of Aunt Lily. Mum sometimes talks about her, you know. She says that you’ve got Aunt Lily’s temper” -- warmth in her chest as  _ I've got mum’s temper  _ was added to her list of treasures -- “and that you’ll grow up real pretty, like her sister. Said that your dad was a looker too, but don’t tell her that I said that, she’d box my ears!” Ianthe giggled, adding  _ her dad was a looker  _ to her treasure trove

“Of course, Dudley. Just this once though, cause you won’t tell about my letter. But the question is, what should I do? They said to send an owl, but what if this is all a great big prank?” Dudley shook his head, a rare kind of steely determination present, “It won’t be Ianthe. You said it yourself; it explained why you can do all those odd things, right? So all we have to do is send a reply and --” but at that moment Aunt Petunia came bursting through the door, holding a platter of what seemed Victoria sponge cake and custard creams but it clattered to the floor as she saw the familiar parchment with the wax seal in the hands of her darling son and the daughter of her dead sister, the one who had been destined to revel in the world of magic. 

She paled; calling out “VERNON!” as she pinched her lips and all of a sudden became very hysterical, “Duddikins hand over the letter sweetie. Don’t worry; I know whatever the  _ freak  _ told you, it isn’t real, alright, darling?” Uncle Vernon came bounding up the stairs, a donut still being half stuck out of his mouth, and was confronted with the odd sight of his son and niece sitting amicably. 

“Vernon,” his wife started, “It came! They sent the letter and Dudley’s read it, and so has the girl!” Vernon, all of a sudden, tried to grab the letter straight from Dudley's loose hands, but at the last minute, Dudley held tight, face pinched, much like his mother, “No. Ianthe and I want to know what it means, if she’s a witch… if she’s  _ magic!  _ You have to tell us!” Uncle Vernon smiled forcedly, tugging harder and harder, “Not to worry, son,” he tried harder and harder, “It’s probably just some prank, freak’s been getting misdirected mail, that’s all.” 

He finally was able to grab the letter, but not before tumbling backwards a great distance, tumbling to the floor, “NO!” Ianthe yelled, jumping on her Uncle’s fallen form,  _ “That’s my letter! _ I want to know, because it's  _ mine.” _ She wrestled with him on the floor, eyes burning an acidic green as Uncle Vernon finally shoved her off as he ran out the room, no doubt wanting to escape from the maniac girl who was set on pursuing him. 

Aunt Petunia held her back, not letting her escape, and now, Ianthe turned her fury on her Aunt. “Tell me!” she demanded, “Tell me, did you know that I was a witch!” She teared at her aunt's arms, bringing great pink marks, “Did you know that I was  _ magic _ , did you? Was dad magic, was  _ Severus?” _

“How did you--?”

“How did they die? Tell me the truth, because how were they magic if they died in a car crash? A measly car crash!  _ Why, why were you scared of magic, tell me Aunt ‘Tuney –“  _ and suddenly, Ianthe was struck to the ground, her breath taken away as she realised that she had been struck by Aunt Petunia. 

Aunt Petunia, while she would give a little bat against the head every now and then, had never struck her, like Uncle Vernon. And yet, the evidence of her claim lay against Ianthe’s right cheek, and despite it, Ianthe’s eyes burned, not in anger, but in pain, just as her collar bone scar burned right alongside it. 

“I was not  _ scared _ ,” Aunt Petunia hissed, “I was  _ jealous _ .”

And so, that was that. 

* * *

After that, things got so tense; you could’ve sliced a knife through it. 

It was also the talk of the neighbourhood, and Petunia was so affected that she didn’t care. At all. 

Well, she did, but she showed in a much more effective way, and despite her great hatred of Aunt Petunia at this moment, Ianthe had to admit that watching Aunt Petunia ruin Lila Orpington’s Gucci handbag was very satisfying after her aunt had overheard them talking about her and  _ ‘her incapable child rearing of a young girl, tosh!’ _ , so much that Ianthe wondered -- when Petunia was less angry -- if she’d give Ianthe some tips. 

Useless though it was, Uncle Vernon had tried to make amends by offering Dudley’s second bedroom in a bid to calm the explosion meant to happen from the both of them. It was that lack of Dudley’s whinging screech that he wanted his bedroom back that signified the thought that Uncle Vernon and Dudley were deadly scared that Aunt Petunia and Ianthe would possibly maim someone in the process of their argument.

She still enjoyed the room, of course, taking her things to the new room only took one trip, and after that, she set about tidying the room, finding a stack of books ranging from an outdated encyclopaedia and a recently gifted  _ The Hobbit _ by a business acquaintance to Dudley, Ianthe had overheard the lady telling him that it was her favourite book as a child in the early 1950’s. 

And yet, the day after the debacle, another six copies had arrived, causing Uncle Vernon to have an aneurysm, much to Ianthe’s amusement. Dudley’s parents had taken to allowing no interaction between the two of them after they had found them bonding over the letter. Ianthe had taken to waiting, letting them grow bored and relax and then striking for the opportunity, but Dudley seemed to keep ruining her plan. 

After those letters, Dudley had seemed more so determined than Ianthe to get the letters. He had woken bright and early, making his way to get a letter once he heard the letter box flap -- only, he had stepped on Uncle Vernon’s face who had camped up to stop  _ Ianthe  _ getting the letter, he certainly did not expect his own son! 

After yelling at Dudley for a bit he told him to wake up Ianthe to make tea, something which caused Ianthe to send a stink eye at Dudley for the rest of the day. 

After breakfast, Uncle Vernon had taken to boarding up the letterbox, causing Ianthe to curse like a sailor internally. “See,” he said through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver, they’ll give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon,” Aunt Petunia chimed in, carrying a plate of fruitcake.

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock a nail in with a piece of fruitcake.

Dudley and Ianthe shared a wondering glance between themselves before Aunt Petunia came up to smack the both of their heads.  _ “Manners!” _ she admonished, “Vernon's perfectly fine. Now, Dudley, I want you to go fetch me a screwdriver, and girl, for Lord’s sake, brush your hair!”

Dudley groaned and Ianthe rolled her eyes before following after Aunt Petunia to fetch a hairbrush. 

* * *

As Ianthe lay in bed, spending the night wondering:  _ Jealous? Aunt Petunia was jealous of mum, of magic? _ , the magic mailman set to work on delivering the letters, and on Friday morning no fewer than twelve letters had made their way into the house. As they couldn’t go through the letter box, they had been pushed under the door, slotted between the sides and some had even made it through the downstairs toilet.

Uncle Vernon stayed home once again. After burning all the letters, to Dudley’s disappointment and Ianthe’s anger ( _ they were hers! _ ) He got out a hammer and nails, and set about boarding all the cracks around the front and back doors, so that no one could get out.

All the while, he hummed _ ‘Tiptoe through the Tulips' _ and jumped at small noises. 

* * *

On Saturday things began to get out of hand. No less than twenty-four letters had arrived, rolled up inside each of their two dozen eggs that were delivered by a very confused milkman through the living room window. 

While Uncle Vernon made furious phone calls to the Dairy and Post, Aunt Petunia set about phoning Isabelle to tell her how worried she was about Vernon. Dudley stared at the pieces of paper that Aunt Petunia had shredded in the food mixer and turned to his cousin, “They want to talk to you. You have to send the reply, Ianthe.”

“Yes, but where am I going to get an  _ owl  _ from?” the imminent detail that had plagued her for the many nights the letters had wreaked havoc. She should’ve kept the letter to hearse;f, she thought furiously. At least then, there would be a chance of an owl waiting nearby.

Dudley shrugged as Uncle Vernon slammed the phone down and set about stomping around the house.

That did not bode well for Dudley and Ianthe.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down looking jolly but ill, spreading marmalade on his newspaper and adding butter in his cornflakes, “No letters today,” he began, “No damn letters today--”

Something came whizzing out the kitchen chimney, hitting Uncle Vernon sharply in the head. About thirty to forty letters came at once, more coming every minute as Uncle Vernon turned a great scarlet and Aunt Petunia ducked, Dudley set about trying to catch a letter from the air, while Ianthe sighed,  _ Idiot _ , before picking up one from the floor before Uncle Vernon wrenched it from her grip and shoved all three of them out the door, “OUT!”

“That does it.” Uncle Vernon proclaimed, slamming the door shut as he turned to them, half his moustache gone, “Pack your bags, we’re leaving in five minutes. Just some clothes, understand? NO ARGUMENTS!” 

Ten excruciating minutes later they were all packed in the car, Dudley sniffling beside his mother. Despite being somewhat decent the past week -- obviously fuelled by their desperate need to know about magic -- he was still a spoiled brat and had been hit round the head by his father after he had tried to pack his television, video and computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And drove. And drove. They even passed a little house, dirt and derelict, in a place called  _ Spinner’s End _ that caused Aunt Petunia to pinch her lips once again just as they reached the hotel.

“Shake ‘em off, that’s what’ll we do.” Uncle Vernon said once they parked the car, making his way inside the lobby. 

They had not eaten all day, Dudley had missed five television shows he had wanted to watch, and he had never spent so long without blowing up an alien on his computer, so, as soon as they entered, Aunt Petunia ordered the first thing she could see on the menu, even bothering to get Ianthe getting a decently sized meal too. 

The both of them were given a room with twin beds and damp, musky sheets. Dudley fell asleep almost at once, while Ianthe stayed awake, staring out the window as she absentmindedly rubbed her scar, tracing the word  _ Voldemort  _ on her collar. 

She gazed at it sadly, wondering if she'd ever learn what it would mean. 

_ Severus, Mum, Dad… tell me, please, is there the slightest chance that I’m… magic, any at all?  _

* * *

They ate stale cornflakes and tinned tomatoes for breakfast, before the owner of the hotel came over to them, “‘Scuse me, but are one of you Miss. I. Potter? Only ‘cause we got about a ‘undred of these on the front desk,” She held up the letter so they could read the address in green ink: 

_ Miss. I. Potter _

_ Room 17 _

_ Railview Hotel _

_ Cokeworth _

Ianthe jumped up, trying to grab the letter but was thwarted when Uncle Vernon got to it first.

The woman stared.

“I’ll take them.” Uncle Vernon said, quickly following her out of the dining room.

* * *

“Wouldn’t it be better to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, covering a blouse over Dudley to keep him warm. 

But Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her, only driving further and farther, looking for something that the rest didn't have a clue about. He drove them to a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head and went back inside. He did the same thing several more times, leaving the rest of them anxious and worried.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked, shaken at the thought of his dad going around the bend. Aunt Petunia hummed mutely, rubbing Dudley’s palm as she watched the great big raindrops roll down the window, the coast raging as a storm approached.

"It's Monday." He whined, "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a  _ television,  _ Mummy!"

Monday. This reminded Ianthe that if it  _ was _ Monday -- and she was sure of it since you could count on Dudley to know the weekdays because of the telly -- tomorrow would be Tuesday, the day of her eleventh birthday, and also the last day to send her acceptance letter to… to  _ Hogwarts _ .

She doubted that they would take applicants that late, and if they did, Ianthe supposed that she would never be able to sneak away, let alone find an  _ owl, _ of all things.

Maybe she could find a snake in a pet shop or something and send it through them?

Her musing was cut short as Uncle Vernon reappeared, smiling brightly and carrying a long, thin package covered in brown paper. Ignoring Aunt Petunia's question of what it was, he called out cheerily to them.

"Come on then, I've found the perfect place! Everyone out!" As they shuffled out the car, they were hit by a biting gust of air, sending shivers down their spines.

Uncle Vernon pointed to what seemed to be a large rock in the middle of the sea, and perched above it was the most miserable shack you could imagine. One thing was certain: that Dudley was not going to find a television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" Uncle Vernon said, clapping his hands together gleefully, "And this gentleman kindly agreed to take us there!"

A toothless old man made his way up, dressed in a drab coat and what seemed to be snakeskin boots, sending Ianthe nauseous as she thought if Nagini had been captured from the last time Ianthe had seen her.

Logically, she knew that there was a slim chance of Nagini being hurt as she had set to go and find her master and there was an even slimmer chance that Ianthe would see Nagini again, yet, she couldn't help but hope Nagini was safe, it seemed.

The old man led them to a small rowing boat that bobbed merrily in greeting on the waves. "I've already got us some rations, so all aboard!" Uncle Vernon said the first to step into the boat.

It was freezing in the boat, the icy sea spray whipped at their faces and down their necks, as chilly winds blew viciously in their faces. After what seemed hours, they reached the rocky shore -- Uncle Vernon leading the way, slipping and sliding, he led them to the shack as the old man in snakeskin boots rowed away.

The inside was horrible, smelling strongly of seaweed and salty sea spray. The wind whistled through the gaps in the wall, and it seemed as if it had not seen a person for many, many years. The fireplace was damp and empty, and there were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be four crisp packets and bananas each, something Ianthe shook her head at, cursing his stupidity that would surely starve them. He tried to start a fire, but the crisp packets only smoked and shrivelled up.

"Could use some of those letters now, eh?" He grinned, confident in his ability that no one would find them here.

Privately, Ianthe agreed, though it did no good to her sullen mood. She wondered how Miss. Nirmala was, after all, her bakers conference should have ended a day or two ago.

Night fell as it always did, Aunt Petunia finding a few spare blankets for Dudley who slept on the sofa and handing a thin, most ragged blanket to Ianthe. As they headed up, Ianthe curled up on the softest piece of floor she could, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

The storm rolled by, the thunderous claps drowning out Dudley snores as Ianthe twisted and turned, wondering if she truly was magic. If it was not some great hoax that someone had decided to play, though someone had to be very dedicated to send that many letters.

She wondered if her Mum and Dad had been magic, she wondered if Severus had been magic. She wondered why Aunt Petunia had been jealous, when she seemed as if she despised her mother and Ianthe herself. 

It was ten minutes till she'd be eleven, and Ianthe wondered if her parents remembered her even now, wondered if they remembered her birthday -- unlike the Dursleys. 

_ Five minutes to go. _ Ianthe heard something creak outside, and she hoped the roof wouldn't fall through, though, to be honest, maybe she'd be warmer if it did, she thought wryly.  _ Four minutes to go. _ Maybe the house would be so full of letters, for that many, they'd surely need lots of owls, so maybe she could find one there. 

_ Three minutes to go. _ Was that the sea, slapping hard against the rock? And  _ (two minutes to go) _ what was that odd crunching noise? It sounded heavy, not like rock crumbling, but something --  _ someone  _ else.

_ One minute to go _ and she'd be eleven.  _ Thirty seconds  _ \-- but she didn't care, the banging --  _ twenty  _ \-- what was it? --  _ Ten  _ \-- it was coming closer --  _ nine  _ \--  _ eight  _ \-- she shook Dudley awake --  _ seven  _ \--  _ six  _ \-- "What?" He said, groggily rubbing his eyes. --  _ Five  _ \--  _ four  _ \-- "There's someone outside, someone..." --  _ three  _ \--  _ two  _ \-- a large thud as they stared wide-eyed --  _ one _ .

_ BOOM. _

They sat upright and afraid and still as the noise shook the house and realised someone was knocking on the door, someone  _ terrifying _ , it seemed. __ ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the wonderful kudos and comments. it really makes my day and I love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> right now, I really hate fixing the format on ao3. whyyy must it be so hard????
> 
> also, imagine the relationship between dudley and ianthe in this fic as id they were a semi-regular pair of siblings and poor tom. 
> 
> obviously things are a bit slow now, but they should start to pick up speed in the next chapter or so.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this instalment, and I would love it if you left your thoughts for me to read!
> 
> \--inkwardspots


	4. the keeper of keys, professor quirrell and gringotts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A giant barges into Ianthe's life (quite literally!), she meets the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, has to deal with pesky goblins, and meets Professor Quirell (who knows how long she'll be able to cope with him during the school year?) and meets one Kalypso Arvanitis.

BOOM.

The person knocked again, a thunderous noise that caused Dudley to jump and look at Ianthe in fear, “Who is it?” he said as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia came running down the stairs, the former holding a rifle _(who on Earth had sold him that? The imbecile is more likely to shoot his foot!)_. They now knew what had been in the long, thin package, not that it did any good as the door was once again knocked on, a great thud resounding. 

“Who’s there?” Uncle Vernon shouted, quivering like a leaf despite his bravado, “I warn you -- I’m armed!” There was a pause, as if it had never happened in the first place, and Uncle Vernon began to relax, and then – 

SMASH!

Uncle Vernon shot up and Aunt Petunia shrieked as the door came tumbling down, swept right off its hinges as a giant figure stood in the doorways as the lightning flashed ominously. He had a great mane of long, tangled, bushy hair that would have made Aunt Petunia throw a fit had she not been scared out of her wits, but behind all that mass of hair, you could make out two eyes, glinting like beetles

He stepped through the doorway, clearing his throat as Dudley squeaked and the giant man lifted the door back up, setting it back firmly in the doorway. “Sorry ‘bout that, but ya haven’t made it easy. Travelled a good few hours to make it here, wouldn’t believe the storm out there, would ya!” he said cheerily, eyes crinkling merrily but at the terrified looks of the Dursleys, Dudley now huddled in his mother’s arms, he turned to the only occupant not terrified out of their mind, Ianthe.

“Ah an’ here’s Ianthe!” he took a seat on the sofa, the poor furniture squeaking as it had to put up with the giant’s great weight, “Las’ time I saw yeh, you was only a baby. Yer look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mum’s eyes. Beauty, they were; reminded me a bit of a Welsh Green’s scales. I'd love one; I’ve always wanted a dragon, see.” Ianthe stared incredulously at the man as he smiled, eyes crinkling kindly as Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise in the background. 

_“Dragons!_ ” he said in part disbelief and other-part horror, “I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

The giant turned round, “Ah shut up Dursley, yeh great prune,” he said, reaching over to easily bend the rifle into an intricate knot before throwing it into a shadowy corner of the room. 

“Anyway -- Ianthe, a very happy birthday to you; Got summat for yeh, mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste alright all the same.” Reaching into his great black overcoat, he retrieved a squashed white box from the inside. 

Opening it with trembling fingers, Ianthe’s breath caught in her throats as she gazed at the words, _Happy 11_ _th_ _Birthday, Ianthe!_ She stared at it a long while, tracing the words over with her eyes.

“Well?” the giant said at last, nervous by the looks of it as he clenched his hand open and closed, “Do yer like it?” Ianthe grinned, eyes twinkling in the firelight as she answered, “It’s brilliant!” 

The great man let out a happy breath, “Knew yer probably wouldn’t get anything from these lot,” he jerked his head towards the Dursley’s direction, “So I baked somethin’ up for yeh.”

Ianthe nodded, before turning back to him, “If you don’t mind me asking, who exactly are you, sir?” The giant chuckled, bringing out a pink umbrella dotted with little yellow ducks, “True, I _haven't_ introduced myself. None o’ that sir business though,” he wrinkled his nose in distaste, “Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds, but call me Hagrid. Everyone else does.” He snorted at the shrivelled up crisp packets and something shot out of the umbrella tip, making the whole fireplace roar to life, a lovely heat emanating from it. 

The giant reached into his coat and pulled out all sorts of things: a squashy packet of sausages, a copper kettle, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs and a battle of some amber liquid that he took a swig of before setting to work. “You could do with some fillin’ up, Ianthe.” he said, before using the frying pan to sizzle the sausages over the open fire. Not long after, the whole shack was filled with the sizzling of sausages, the lovely warmth emitting all around Ianthe, as if she was submerged in a lovely warm bath. 

Dudley fidgeted before at last speaking up, “Hogwarts?” Dudley said from behind his mother, ignoring her hiss of _Dudley!_

“You mean the magic place; Ianthe’s new school, Hogwarts?” Hagrid turned to him, waving him over as Dudley came to stand beside Ianthe, before handing the large boy and Ianthe two slightly burnt sausages. “Aye,” he said, smiling, “‘course, you’ll know all about Hogwarts, don’t ya, Ianthe?” 

Ianthe shrugged, answering as she ate the sausage, planning on eating for the cake next, “Not really, Hagrid.” she said in between mouthfuls, “The only reason I knew about Hogwarts was because me and Dudley were able to read the letter together, though I’m a bit sceptical. Before then, I had no idea about magic.” she finished turning back to Hagrid, watching as he turned a great crimson. 

“NO IDEA ABOUT MAGIC!” he yelled, standing up and turning on the quivering Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, “DURSLEY! Are yeh telling me that this girl -- that this girl didn’t know ‘bout magic before ‘er Hogwarts letter? Are yeh tellin’ me that she doesn’t ‘ave any idea about what -- what she’s done? ‘bout ‘ow many lives she's saved?”

Ianthe’s eyes creased in confusion, “What I’ve done?” she echoed as Dudley looks between all of them, as if it was an interesting sitcom drama, like the ones Aunt Petunia watched. “What do you mean, Hagrid? I certainly doubt that I’ve saved any lives.”

“Blimey Ianthe,” he said, whirling around to the curly-haired girl, “When Dumbledore told me that yer weren’t getting yer letter, I certainly didn’t expect this. I wasn’t prepared to tell yer about -- about what you did.”

“Hagrid, I don’t like the sound of this. What did I do?” she asked warily, eyes cautious yet earnest as Dudley nodded along with the sentiment. 

“You got my sister blown up, that's what you did, girl.” Aunt Petunia butted in, “With that _freak_ hunting you down, my sister went and got herself blown up, trying to protect you. Lost cause, if you ask me, you’re still as _freakish_ , still as _abnormal_ , and still as _demonic_ as my sister. Always showing off her _‘odd abilities’_ as she called it. Not much different, are you? And when she got her letter, mother and father were so proud. They were so proud, so proud to have a _witch_ in the family, going off to that -- to that _school_ \-- coming home with pockets full of frogspawn and turning teacups into rats. They didn’t see her for what she was, a freak!” she hissed, chest heaving as Ianthe turned stiff, her jaw tightening as a heavy feeling settled in her stomach as a voice spoke, _She lied,_ it said, _it's only fair you make them pay._

Yet Petunia carried on, as if this had been on her chest for all this time, “And then she met that Potter, no manners and telling us that he lives off a fortune, and then they go and get themselves blown up! Told me before she died that -- that _awful boy_ had joined them, told me to _be careful, ‘Tuney,_ ” she sneered, “HA! And then, we got landed with you. So strange, and demonic, and _foreign,_ you are. Not like us, never like us, trying to influence precious Duddikins, we knew the only way to put a stop to it was to never let you know. But you freaks can’t take no for an answer, can you?” she said, turning to Hagrid who stared back both sombre and disgusted.

“Can’t believe yer Dursley; to treat a child tha’ way. Yer lot are rotten to the core, aren’t ya?” he said, turning to Dudley who handed a piece of cake to Ianthe who seemed in shock at her Aunt’s admission, "Least one of yeh lot is alright."

“They lied,” she murmured, “Wouldn’t be the first though, right, Dudley?” She said in a humourless voice, letting out a deprecating bark of laughter. Her cousin looked at her, trying to reassure her, “I’m sure they meant to tell you eventually, how your parents died.” Ianthe shook her head in disbelief, “But magic’s still cool though, think you can write me letters when you go off to Hogwarts?”

“‘Course I will.” Ianthe answered, bringing the cake up to her mouth.

Uncle Vernon was shook out of his stupor at the admission of her going to Hogwarts, “Enough.” he said, and “This tosh is rubbish. Listen girl,” her back was still to him as he spoke; she turned around as he seemed intent on burning her through the power of his glare alone, “No denying that there’s not something right about you. Nothing a good beating wouldn’t solve; should be grateful that we took you in at all, girl; but I ain’t letting you go!” he roared, turning on Hagrid, “You hear me, man! You can take your bloody message and leave, the girl ain't going!” 

Hagrid glowered threateningly at the portly man, “Like to see a great muggle like you try, Dursley.” He cast a glance over the rotund man as Ianthe felt as if she had heard the word -- _muggle_ \-- before. 

_Ah, Nagini._

“Muggle?” Dudley asked eager as his watery blue eyes shimmered, “Non--magic folk.” Hagrid answered dutifully before turning back to Dudley's parents, “Now listen ‘ere, I don’ know wha’ lies you bee’ feedin’ Ianthe, bu’ I’ll be putting a stop to it. Stop Lily an’ James daughter! Yer mad. ‘Er names bee’ down since she were born, she’ll be one of the brightest minds in that place, I tell ya!” Ianthe coloured at this, because even knowing Ianthe only for a little while, Hagrid was still so sure in his assessment, it made Ianthe warm, knowing that he believed in her; “Ianthe’ll be headed off to Hogwarts, come September. One of the' fines’ schools o’ witchcraf’ an’ wizardry in the world! Seven years there and she won’t know herself! She’ll be with younglings of ‘er own age fer a change, taught by the greates’ minds of the age and all un’er the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts ever ‘ad, Albus Dumbled--” 

“I’M NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACHER HER MAGIC TRICKS!”

But he had finally gone too far, Hagrid whirled around, bringing the umbrella over his head before pointing it towards Uncle Vernon, “NEVER--” he thundered, “INSULT -- ALBUS -- DUMBLEDORE -- IN -- FRONT -- OF -- ME!” he brought the umbrella up, and with a zap at Uncle Vernon, his teeth began to grow and grow and grow!

Wide-eyed the two children started as his teeth still began to grow, until finally they stopped just before his waist -- he looked remarkably like a walrus, now that Ianthe thought about it. Petunia shrieked in shock and Dudley whimpered as he rushed to his father. 

Aunt Petunia cast a fearful glance at the both of them, before ushering her husband and her whimpering son into the small bedroom, leaving Ianthe with Hagrid who had a sheepish expression on his face, “Shouldn'ta lost ma temper," Hagrid said ruefully, a hand the size of a dustbin coming up to stroke his long, shaggy beard, "But it didn't work anyway. Meant to turn 'im into a walrus, goes to show tha’ there wasn't much left to change in the end!" He laughed out, plopping down on the sofa again.

However, Ianthe stared back at the door in worry, turning to Hagrid to ask a question, "Uncle Vernon will be alright, won't he, Hagrid? Even if he is horrible, I'd never want him to be stuck with those horribly long teeth."

Hagrid eyes softened as he looked at Ianthe, draping his coat onto the floor, "Aye," he said, "He'll be fine. Bastard man, though, if ya ask me. Too kind, you are, Ianthe. Jus' like Lily, yer mother, she was always poppin' down to me hut, back in 'er school days. Head Girl with yer dad as Head Boy, wouldn't find an 'appier couple anywhere," he said, eyes sad and a smile kind as he looked at Ianthe.

All of a sudden, he became very nervous, clearing his throat, "Er -- Ianthe, I would appreciate it if yer didn't tell anyone a' Hogwarts. Not really allowed to perform magic on muggles -- or since I was expelled."

Ianthe turned very stern in that moment, “Hagrid,” she started, “I think it would be best if you set Uncle Vernon’s teeth right in the morning; especially, if you’re not allowed to perform magic on muggles.”

Hagrid tried to protest, “But--” 

“No buts.” Ianthe said, voice firm and eyes unyielding. Hagrid wilted but agreed nonetheless, no matter how unwilling. 

However Ianthe had another question, "You were expelled, Hagrid?"

"Er -- well, yes. Expelled in me third year; broke me wand an' everythin'. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore, gave me a place when no one would."

Ianthe wondered what he had been expelled for, but she liked to believe she had more tact.

"Well, it's a gettin' late, have ta go and get yer books and the like tomorrow. Why don't you kip in under there," he pointed to his coat, "Careful though, still might have a couple of dormice in one o' the pockets." 

Ianthe cast a glance at the coat, before walking towards it and letting it lay over her like a blanket. It was quite warm, smelling of a strange woodsy scent and something she couldn't quite place. Falling asleep surrounded by warmth and the soft crackle of fire, she couldn't but hope that this would all last.

* * *

For the briefest moment, Ianthe thought she was back in her cupboard. She could feel the floor (though when did she get this warm a blanket?) and Aunt Petunia's insistent tapping on the cupboard door.

She'd had a wonderful dream though, where a giant called Hagrid had come to collect her and take her to Hogwarts, she had dreamed that he had made Uncle Vernon’s teeth grow to his waist (making him look like a walrus) until Ianthe had told him quite firmly that he was to set the teeth back to normal in the morning. 

Yet, the tapping continued. Disheartened, Ianthe shrugged her blanket of -- only, it wasn’t a blanket at all: it was a coat instead! And the tapping came from the window, not her cupboard door. A smile pulled at her lips as she found that it wasn’t all a dream. However, the tapping was getting quite annoying.

Pulling herself up to stand, she was met by the oddest sight of an owl tapping on the window with quite a grumpy look on its face. Walking towards the window, she pulled the latch open, allowing the barn owl to flutter in. It held out its leg as Ianthe pulled the newspaper free.

She laid it on the floor, and my, the pictures seemed to be moving! The man on the front, a short portly man with a striped pin suit and bowler hat seemed to be waving the people away as he entered a large building. Miffed, the owl started pecking at her fingers, causing Ianthe to hiss in pain and accidentally slip into actual hisses -- _Parseltongue_ , Nagini had called it; _“Ssssssstop it!”_ Ianthe said, annoyed. 

Hagrid awoke at the noise, blearily rubbing his eyes from his spot on the sofa, “Ianthe?” he yawned out, a large hand coming to cover his mouth, “Wha’s the matter?” 

Ianthe cast a glance at the owl, wary of his beak, as she turned to Hagrid, “Well, there was an owl Hagrid. It had a newspaper, so I took it; only, it started biting my finger off. “

Hagrid chuckled, bringing himself to sit up, “Well, they’ll do tha’, they will. The owl’ll want a paying; rifle in my pockets. You’ll find some coins,” Ianthe put her hand in the pockets, pulling out a few dormice, a packet of dog biscuits and what seemed to be little green balls, “Slug pellets,” Hagrid supplied.

Finally finding little bronze and silver coins, she pulled them out. “Right,” Hagrid said, “Give ‘im five Knuts,” at Ianthe’s confused stare he started again, “The little bronze ones, you’ll find a -- righ’, you got that.” he said as Ianthe put the Knuts in a tiny leather pouch. 

The owl sent one more baleful look her way (which Ianthe returned) before flying out the window, but not before crashing on the window, which had -- err, magically swung in its face.

Hagrid handed her a sausage, before popping three in one go into his mouth, “Shou’d be fine, Ianthe. We can have a bi’ o’ tha’ cake after. Have to be on our way though, can’t be too late. Have ta meet Prof’ssor Quirrell on the way.”

Ianthe was halfway through her third sausage, but perked up at the mention of this new person -- a Professor. “Professor Quirrell?” Hagrid turned to her, “Aye. Was the muggle studies Prof’ssor before, took the Defense Against the Dark Arts job now, though. Don’t expect he’ll last though,” he said ominously before turning back to his tea that he took a swig of after putting a little of the amber liquid in. 

Ianthe wondered as he swirled the contents together with a silver spoon, “What’s Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hagrid?” Ianthe said, feeling horribly stupid with not knowing all these new things, “And why don’t you think Professor Quirell’ll last?”

Hagrid turned a embarrassed red at the question, “Oh, er-- might not want to mention that, Ianthe. ‘Bout him not lasting, on yer first day. Defense Against the Dark Arts, DADA fer shor’, is all about protecting yerself from dark magic and the like. ‘Orrible stuff, dark magic, Really does yer ‘ead in, it does. Anyway,” he said brightly, “No one expects a DADA Prof’ssor to last more than a year, some say the position’s cursed. Gets ‘arder and ‘arder for Prof’ssor Dumbledore to find good applicants. Las’ year, ‘e ad to hire a vampire. Got a bit much when we ‘ad to stop ‘im from fighting with the centaurs.”

Centaurs, Vampires? Curses and Dark Magic? Ianthe felt so out of depth, like she was stranded in the middle of an ocean. Licking her lips, she looked up at the giant, “And why are we meeting up with Professor Quirrell?” 

“Well,” Hagrid said, “We’ll meet up with ‘im, bu’ then yer on yer own with ‘im. I hav’ta head down to Knockturn -- back alley place where the low lifes trade, so don’t let me catch you down there. Yeh’ll do most of yer shopping with ‘im, and then after I’ve finished ma errands, we’ll ‘ead back to yer ‘ouse. S’matter a fac’ we shou’d be headin’ off ‘bout now.”

Ianthe nodded, standing up and at least trying to appear somewhat presentable even with her rag torn clothes. “Oh, Hagrid,” she said, as he opened the door, “Yes?” he asked, taking a step outside. He felt a burning glare as an involuntary shiver went up his spine, “Don’t try and act like you forgot to set Uncle Vernon’s teeth right.” 

Hagrid let out a great heaving sigh, as if she had asked the world of him, and set towards the other bedroom, blasting it open with his umbrella as loud shrieks were heard (courtesy of Petunia) and he let out a great zap. He came out the door, with a normal-toothed Uncle Vernon crying out in relief as Hagrid ushered Ianthe out the door, Dudley watching them go, an unexplainable emotion present in his eye. 

Walking towards the boat, he clambered in, followed by Ianthe who sat tentatively on the boat, feeling a slight queasiness as Hagrid pulled his umbrella close, “Er -- yer don’t mind me using a bit o’ magic to speed this along, do ya Ianthe?” Ianthe shook her head, more in trying to not vomit than in consent. Hagrid grinned, using his umbrella to propel them along which set the sausages and stale cake Ianthe had for breakfast churning even more violently.

He pulled the newspaper he had gotten earlier from one of his numerous pockets, drawing it out to read as the boat propelled itself forward, seemingly by itself.

The boat moved still faster, and as time wore on, Ianthe felt her stomach settle and her face settle back from the tinted green to her usual golden-bronze with rosy cheeks. Hagrid turned a page snorting, “Ha! _‘Minister Asking For Loan Extension From Gringotts.’_ Like that’ll work!” he snorted, “Goblins would never let tha’ ‘appen. Ministry o’ Magic’s gonna be turned on their ‘eads if they challenge them lot.” 

“Goblins?” Ianthe asked, turning away from the gently lapping waves of the ocean, a stark contrast from the furious waves of the night before. “Aye, Goblins. Run the Wixen Bank, Gringotts. Never mess with a Goblin, I tell ya. They’ll only strike back harder. See, the banks buried ‘undred o’ miles underground, spells and enchantments. Some say that they even have dragons guarding the high security vaults. No place in the world better if yeh wanna keep anythin’ safe -- ‘cept maybe Hogwarts. S’matter o’ fact, one o’ ma errands is in Gringotts. I’ve got something to collect. Hogwarts Business. Dumbledore trusts me with tha’ important stuff -- fetchin’ you, gettin’ stuff from Gringotts.”

As they neared the shore, close and closer, a thought struck Ianthe, “Hagrid, I haven’t got any money. And you heard Uncle Vernon; he won’t pay for my fees or my equipment!” Hagrid chuckled at that, “Don’tcha worry Ianthe, money’s all sorted. Yeh heard yer Aunt, James lived off a fortune; yer grandfather was quite a successful businessman. The Potter family knew potions like nobody else; yer mum was quite a dab hand too. Sure you’ll be great too, so don’t worry.” 

But Ianthe shot her next question, “You said you’ve got a Ministry?” Hagrid grinned, lying a giant hand on her shoulder, _“We’ve_ got a Ministry, Ianthe. You’re part of our world now, don’t ya forget it.” a warmth curled inside, _you’re part of our world now, don’t ya forget it,_ “But yeh, we do. ‘Course, everyone wanted Dumbledore fer Minister o’ Magic, but e’d never leave Hogwarts. So we ‘ad to settle for ol’ Cornelius Fudge. Right tosser, reckon ‘e only got office ‘cause o’ Lucius Malfoy. Slippery bloke, tha’ man. Anyway, Fudge bombards Dumbledore each morning with owl’s fer advice.”

They reached the shore, Hagrid stepped out as Ianthe asked her next question, eyebrows slightly furrowed, “But Hagrid, what does a Minister of Magic _do?”_

Hagrid lumbered on as his large figure made way for a large path, all Ianthe had to do was stick close by, “Keep the muggles from findin’ out about us, mostly. We’d be neck deep with muggles wantin’ magical cures for their problems, otherwise.”

As they walked on, passer-by’s stared a lot. Hagrid was fascinated by all sorts: the parking meter, the flickering lamp post, even the advertisement for the Women's FIFA World Cup _(unladylike,_ Petunia would sniff, _they give us all a bad name_ while Ianthe would watch with avid interest at their coordination, at their joy in doing something they loved.)

They reached the station, people scuttling by like ants. Hagrid passed the ‘muggle money’, as he called it to Ianthe to handle, instead spending his time _oohing_ and _aahing_ at the _Dior_ advertisements and the passing trains. The train to London left in five minutes, and as they boarded, people seemed to give them even more berth.

Ianthe didn’t know if it was Hagrid's own giant figure and wild and scraggly appearance or her own ragged and downtrodden one, the air of a ‘vicious child’ (as Aunt Petunia said) permeable to the travellers. Ianthe decided as soon as possible, she had to have money in Gringotts, she’d buy some new clothes. After all, she couldn’t spend the rest of her life dressed as an urchin cross-bred with a hedgehog, could she?

As they sat on the train seats (Hagrid took up two), it throttled by. Hagrid seemed not at all bothered as he set about knitting what seemed to be a canary yellow circus tent. As he set about counting his crosses, he talked, still focused on his project, “Still got yeh letter, Ianthe?”

“Yes,” she said drawing it out, the wax seal broken as she took the second letter out:

* * *

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**UNIFORM**

**First-year students require:**

  * **Three sets of plain work robes (black)**


  * **One plain pointed hat (black) for formal wear**


  * **One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**


  * **One winter cloak (black, silver fastening)**



**Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags.**

**SET BOOKS**

**All students should have a copy of all the following:**

**_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ ** **by Miranda Goshawk**

**_A History of Magic_ ** **by Bathilda Bagshot**

**_Magical Theory_ ** **by Adalbert Waffling**

**_A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ ** **by Emeric Switch**

**_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ ** **by Phyllida Spore**

**_Magical Drafts and Potions_ ** **by Arsenius Jigger**

**_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ ** **by Newt Scamander**

**_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ ** **by Quentin Trimble**

**_Wixen Culture: The Fundamentals_ ** **by Estella P. Jorgin (exclusively for the muggleborn and muggle-raised)**

**_Muggle Culture: The Principles_ ** **by Kendrick Hobbinshire (exclusively for the wixen-born)**

**_The Beginner’s Guide to Latin, 1990 Edition_ ** **by Adhideva Bhatt**

**RECOMMENDED ADDITIONAL FIRST-YEAR READING:**

**_Hogwarts: A History_ ** **by Bathilda Bagshot**

**_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts: A 21 Century Edition_ ** **by Georgina Ursula**

**_The Muggleborn and Muggle-Raised Guide: What You Need To Know_ ** **by Saffiiyah Thomas**

**_Notable Figures in Recent Wixen History: Hogwarts Alumni, Political Figures and more!_ ** **By Louie Arellano**

**_Hogwarts and Her Founders: A Biography_ ** **by Arlene Newman**

**OTHER EQUIPMENT**

**1 Wand**

**1 Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**

**1 set glass or crystal phials**

**1 telescope**

**1 set brass scales**

**Students may also bring an owl OR cat OR toad.**

**Should a student wish to have any additional pets that are not an owl, or cat, or toad, they must seek permission from the Headmaster firstly and their Head of House secondly.**

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.**

* * *

“Hagrid,” Ianthe said, suddenly feeling doubtful, looking at the Muggle-Raised Guide, feeling as if she’d have a lot of use for it, a fire of _why must i need it if it is the world i was born into?_ kindling in her stomach.

“Are you sure we can buy all this in London?”

“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid, adding another row of crosses.

* * *

Ianthe had been to London once before, with Aunt Petunia. They had needed to go because she had wanted to pick up her jewellery, and Ianthe had been forced to tag along as she couldn’t be left home alone. She had been walking when a tall man with silky platinum locks had shoved her aside, sneering foully, as if he had stepped on some dog business, a sneer which Ianthe had returned with a steel look and Aunt Petunia had sneered back to before moving along. 

Nonetheless, Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, though he had trouble getting there the normal way. He got stuck in the Underground and couldn’t help but complain about how the seats were too small and the trains too slow; “I don’t know how Muggles survive without magic, to be honest, Ianthe.” he admitted as they climbed down a broken down escalator which led them to the bustling streets of London.

Hagrid couldn’t help but point at a passing double-decker bus, manoeuvring about as he made sure they went the right way. Yet, even as they travelled, Ianthe wondered if she truly believed in magic. Did she believe it; did she dare hope that there were others like her and Hagrid? Believe that hundreds of miles underground lay a vault full of money waiting for her?

Despite how ludicrous it sounded, Ianthe believed it. She believed in magic, because what else could it be? Grinning to herself, she pushed forward, following Hagrid as he rounded a corner. 

Hagrid came to a halt, causing Ianthe to bump into his back, “‘Ere we are,” he said, motioning to a grubby-looking pub, “The Leaky Cauldron, famous place, this one.” For some reason ( _magic_ , her mind supplied) it seemed as if everyone else (the muggles) seemed to completely ignore the tiny pub, eyes slipping over from the large bookshop on the left to the record shop with the newest chart topper on either side of the pub. 

Before Ianthe could mention this to Hagrid, he had steered the both of them inside. For a famous place, it looked very dark and shabby, dingy with a side of iconic that if they changed it, people would rebel. Ianthe could spot a trio of old women in the corner, drinking glasses of sherry and talking lowly to each other. Another group of men and one woman sat and played cards together, golden coins and silver ones moving around in a strange rotation. “Mundungus,” one said, “Don’t try and bloody cheat me, you tosser!” 

The Leaky Cauldron, it seemed, was stuck in a moment of time, never changing. A man in shabby robes entered after them, youthful and handsome in appearance, a black piece of cloth wrapped around his ankle, yet it seemed he had too many grey hairs for his age, as well as scars. He pulled up a chair, shrugging his coat off as he stared pensively before ordering for a _‘butterbeer’._

Ianthe watched the man in shabby robes, a sense familiarity pervading her senses, as Hagrid conversed with the barman, ‘Tom’ she had distantly heard. “....Is this -- could this be -- ....Ianthe Potter?”

Ianthe whipped her head around from the man with amber eyes and too-grey hair, “Yes?” she said, he stared for a moment, before a breath escaped him, “Bless my soul,” he started, “Ianthe Potter, what an honour.” he suddenly rushed from behind the bar and clambered to shake her hand, warm eyes and even warmer tears pooling in his eyes, “Welcome back, Miss. Potter, welcome back.” 

There was a sudden silence, the amiable chatter non-existent now. Ianthe didn't know what to do, what to say. Everyone seemed to be looking at her, and if she had looked the left, she would’ve realised that someone had quite literally fell out of his chair at her admittance. The old lady in the corner kept puffing on her pipe, not realising her pipe had gone out, and the shabby-robed man from earlier seemed to have spilt his drink, sitting rigid as if he had seen a ghost. He stared at her with warring emotions in his eyes, raw pain and relief and _why?_ As if he had seen a spirit of the past, a reminder of painful but once-joyous memories.

She had no time to ponder on this however as there was great scraping of chairs, the Leaky Cauldron’s patrons rushing to grab her hand, to say hello to the saviour of the Wixen World. 

“Doris Crockford, Miss. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.” A bandage around the forearm, decorated in scrawled flowers.

“So proud, Miss. Potter, so proud.” On the man's neck, a name: _Daniel T.J._ written in a squashed calligraphy and in blue ink.

“Always wanted to shake your hand -- I’m all of a flutter.” And yet another hand, with not another name but a word _(Starlight)_ but in deep black this time, glittering like stars.

“Delighted, Miss. Potter; just can’t tell you. Diggle’s the name. Dedalus Diggle.”

Ianthe stared at him for a long moment, “I know you -- don’t I? You bowed to me once in a shop, didn’t you?” The tiny man jumped in excitement, his top hat tumbling down, and a bracelet of silver around his wrist glinting in the candle-light. “She remembers me,” he said, looking around at everyone, “Hear that? By Jove, she remembers me!”

Before Ianthe could wonder for too long about the bandages, bracelets and wraps of cloth around some people and why some of them had a name, like the _Voldemort_ on her collarbone, whilst others had a word ( _Idyllic,_ one had said) and a few even had phrase ( _accende me_ ) a pale young man made his way forward, hands fidgeting and his left eye twitching. “Prof’ssor Quirrell!” Hagrid cried out, beaming as the Professor came forward. 

_Ah,_ Ianthe thought, _so this is the impressive Professor Quirrell._ “P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Ianthe’s hand with his own leather-gloved one, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

For propriety’s sake, Ianthe thought it best to nod in reply, grasping his hand in a firm shake. “Nice to meet you as well, Professor Quirrell. You’re the one we were to meet up with later, am I correct?” It seemed as if his whole demeanour changed in that moment, his back straightened from its slight cowering position and he returned her shake of the hand with his own considerate squeeze before retreating, “Quite right, Miss. Potter.”

A smooth gravelled voice presented itself to her, unlike the previous stuttering, “Though I’m sure you and Hagrid,” a curl of the lips, _Odd,_ Ianthe thought. “must stop at Gringotts first. I have my own errands to run, I’m due t-t-o--” his shoulders hunched again, the previously confident posture slipping away, the tick in his eyes returning, he swallowed, “To p-p-pick up a book. On v-v-vampires.” he looked terrified at the very thought.

Ianthe was preoccupied with his change in demeanour, she reached out to grab his hand, but in the last moment someone grabbed her hand, the crowds not eager to share her attention with Professor Quirrell anymore. He turned away, and yet Ianthe swore she saw a hint of red in his eye just then before he was swallowed by the crowd. 

Ianthe shook hands again and again -- Doris Crockford kept coming back for more -- and by the 42nd handshake she had quite enough. Turning to Hagrid she spoke, “Hagrid?” he turned to her, a ready beam on his face, which made Ianthe even more annoyed, “I think I’ve had quite enough shaking their hands. Don’t we have some school shopping to do?”

“Right ya are, Ianthe,” Hagrid said, “Come on the, you lot – back up! Must get on -- lots ter buy!” 

Doris Crockford came to shake Ianthe’s hand one more time -- no matter how uncomfortable Ianthe looked. Hagrid then led her though the bar, where she spotted the many patrons hushed whispers and stares, the man in shabby robes leaving through the door they had just come through earlier, hunched with a weary look on his face.

Hagrid ushered her through to a small courtyard, the only occupants a dustbin and a few wilting weeds. “See Ianthe,” Hagrid grinned, drawing out his umbrella, “First step in an’ everyone already knows ya.” Ianthe hummed, wondering why they seemed so gratuitous towards her. Hagrid had still neglected to tell her what she had actually done to earn their gratitude, after all.

“Yer even managed to stop Prof’essor Quirrell tremblin’ fer a bit!”

He drew his umbrella closer, bringing up as he muttered to himself, “Three up...two across…” He stumbled, dropping his umbrella.

He cursed, and as Hagrid bent down to collect it Ianthe pondered her question out loud, “Is he always that nervous?” 

“Aye,” Hagrid said, drawing himself up to his full height, “Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while ‘e was studyin’ outta books, bu’ then he took a year off ter get some first-hand experience...They say ‘e met some vampires in the Black Forest out in Germany, and a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag -- never bee’ the same since. Scared o’ the students, scared o’ his own subject -- even scared o’ the house elves!” he finished incredulously. “But ‘e did seem a bit mo’ confident today, maybe’ll e’s getting over those vampires? Not likely, bu’ still…” he trailed off, a pondering look in his eye.

“Anyway Ianthe,” he started, “Might wanna stand back fer this,” He brought his umbrella up as Ianthe took a step back. The pink umbrella point came to tap on the bricks, three up from the dustbin, two across and seven down before he patted the brick thrice with his umbrella tip. 

The brick quivered -- it wriggled -- a small hole in the middle appeared before melting away, the hole becoming bigger and bigger, before an arch large enough for even Hagrid to walk though emerged Ianthe’s breath caught in her throat, eyes wide and eyes glowing in excitement as she spotted the cobbled road that twisted and winded at every turn.

“Welcome,” Hagrid said, grinning at her awestruck face, “To Diagon Alley.”

Almost at once Ianthe felt the urge she had always wanted, the feeling of belonging. They walked forward, people rushing by and magic thrown about at every turn. Some rushed by in witch hats, others in intricate robes and odd muggle clothes. 

She paid no heed to the wall which had shrunk back into its original form. They walked forward, the sun shining on a collection of rather large pots -- no, cauldrons, the sign said; _Cauldrons -- All Sizes -- Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver -- Self-Stirring -- Collapsible_ said the overhanging sign in neat metallic bronze. 

“Yeh, you’ll be needin’ one o’ those. Gotta get yer money first though,” Hagrid said, following her line of sight. Ianthe, in a rush of euphoria, wished she had another eight eyes. She had a sudden rush in wanting to see everything: the shops, their wares, and even the people doing the shopping. 

“Dragon liver, sixteen sickles an ounce, they’re mad…” said a plump woman, dressed in green with copper hair. 

A soft cacophony of melodious hoots reached her, she spun around to a shop filled to the brim with all sort of owls, she looked up to the shop banner, _Eeylops Owl Emporium -- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown and Snowy._ Further down she spotted another ruckus of animals, owls screeching and cats howling and many, many hisses and assorted noises coming from a shop brimming with people called _The Magical Menagerie._

As they passed by, Ianthe spotted a group of boys ogling with avid interest a sleek broomstick in a window display, “Nimbus Two-Thousand,” she heard, “Say that she’s the fastest broom on the market -- the Comet’s got nothing on her, I tell you!” 

They walked through so many different shops, assortments of different coloured robes, books peeking out through windows and even spinning silver objects with no obvious purpose looking back at her.

They reached a large, grand marble building at the end of the winding road. It stood proud, gleaming and glistening in the sun as the people flitted about like moths around them. 

“Gringotts.” Hagrid supplied.

At the opened door, decked in a uniform of scarlet and gold stood -- “Yeh, that’s a goblin.” Hagrid said quietly as they walked towards they walked upon the white stone steps towards him. The goblin, green in colour with a smart and pointy face with a beard stood a head shorter then Ianthe. He bowed to them as they walked in; a curious stare from Ianthe caused him to bare his teeth and growl, something that Ianthe returned eyes glowing and vicious as she played along with him.

_A display of dominance,_ she thought as she saw the goblin shrink away and minutely jump at the glowing eyes. They reached upon a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words etched in them:

* * *

_ENTER, STRANGER, BUT TAKE HEED_

_OF WHAT AWAITS THE SIN OF GREED,_

_FOR THOSE WHO TAKE, BUT DO NOT EARN,_

_MUST PAY MOST DEARLY IN THEIR TURN,_

_SO IF YOU SEEK BENEATH OUR FLOORS_

_A TREASURE THAT WAS NEVER YOURS,_

_THIEF, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, BEWARE_

_OF FINDING MORE THAT TREASURE THERE._

* * *

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad to try an’ rob it.” Hagrid said from her left side, as another pair of goblins bowed the both of them through these doors as well, long fingers sweeping in their bow. As they stepped in, Ianthe knew from only one glance about the room that there had to be at least a hundred goblins, all sat on tall counters. Hagrid walked her to an empty counter, where a goblin sat, scrawling across a weathered piece of paper. 

He sat scrawling for a long moment as Hagrid searched in his pockets for something, letting out a quiet _‘Aha!’_ when he found it. The goblin finally finished peering at them from up above, eyes inquisitive from behind his spectacles, “Gringotts is at your service, and how may I help you?”

Hagrid cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Ianthe. “Oh, err--” she lapsed into a quick silence, “My name is Miss. Ianthe Lily Potter and I wish to -- to access my vault,” she demanded. The goblin peered intensely, “Miss. Ianthe Lily Potter?” 

Ianthe nodded.

"Miss. Potter, a fact which you may not know is that each Wixen child, on their thirteenth birthday, has an inheritance test, funded by Gringotts herself. However, as the Heir of a Noble House, as is customary, you must be directed to your accounts manager for House Potter. He will provide you with further details about you accounts, as I cannot help you further. I would suggest arranging an appointment with your accounts manager, as he is currently stationed at the Irish Gringotts Branch.”

Ianthe mulled this over in her head, a lone finger coming to rest on her lips. “Of course,” she smiled lightly, “And what time would be appropriate for my meeting?” The goblin drew his fingers together, “It depends,” he began slowly, “We goblins are ever so busy. However, we could send a letter of urgent correspondence; at a price, of course.”

"Well sir," Ianthe began, not at all unhappy with the proposition, “I do believe it would be best if that would be arranged, at your earliest convenience?” The goblin nodded, fascinated by the demonic gleam in her eyes, “Of course,”

“Now, onto your vault Miss. Potter, if you wish to access it, you require a key.” 

Hagrid handed her something -- a small golden key, it seemed. She bent up on her tiptoes, for she was a child of small stature, and slid it over. The goblin, with his crooked nose and glinting spectacles, roused about for any imperfections. “That seems to be in order at least,” he murmured. He turned to her again, “Gringotts is proud to offer its services, Miss. Potter. Welcome.” He said, baring his teeth. 

_Ah, another show of dominance_ . The inevitable feelings used to power the glow built up, _show him who’s in charge_ , she thought, and the eyes glowed, the same as her mother when she had first stepped in these ancient halls, except the red-haired girl’s eyes had glowed with the feeling of joy, not this feeling of executing dominance. Hagrid watched with interest as the goblin smiled thinly.

“Oh! An’ther thing,” Hagrid fumbled about in his pockets as he retrieved a letter, handing it to the goblin, “Go’ a letter from Profe’ssor Dumbledore,” Hagrid puffed out his chest importantly, “It’s about You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.” 

The goblin’s long fingers wrapped around the letter, opening it and reading over it carefully, “Very well. I will get someone to take you to your vaults. Miss. Potter, may I suggest that you have a hold on your stomach from henceforth. Griphook!” 

Another goblin strode over -- this one with a long nose and scowling face, it seemed as if the goblins had only one mood. Griphook the goblin and Ianthe locked eyes, his finger clenched imperceptibly and Ianthe wondered what this feeling building up inside her was; it seemed to be instinctual loathing, and so it should be as the goblin seemed the most horrid of those who worked at Gringotts. The creature ushered them over to a large door. As Hagrid grabbed his umbrella, Ianthe asked the inevitable question, “What’s You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” 

“Can’t say,” Hagrid said as they rounded a corner, “Hogwarts business. Very secret, not something to tell just anybody, Ianthe; Dumbledore trusted me, so I gotta uphold it. More’n me job’s worth, to be honest.

Griphook held a door open for them, nodding them forward, Ianthe with a curl of the lips. Ianthe had expected to find more marble, but was instead met with the sight of a small passageway lit with burning torches, railways sat on the floor. Griphook held a finger to his mouth, letting loose a whistle that Ianthe was sure only a dog would hear. They waited for a scant thirty seconds as a carriage hurtled down the rails, coming to abrupt halt at the front of them.

They all got in -- Hagrid with some difficulty -- and set off, hurtling into an expanse of darkness. At first they rushed by, and Ianthe tried to remember the turns, left, right, right, left, middle fork, left, right, and yet Ianthe lost her way as the carriage seemed drive itself (Griphook certainly wasn’t driving it, as seen by his crossed forearms.)

Ianthe whipped her head around as she thought she saw a burst of fire, and there it was: a pale dragon, eyes milky pink even in the distance, its majestic figure huddled against a wall as another goblin held a cow bell and a piece of meat at its feet. Such a fearsome creature, tied in the depths of the earth when it should soar, it made Ianthe ache from inside, her windswept tears hurtling by as they sped past it.

_Pathetic,_ a voice said, _to be captive despite being so powerful. How weak._ And yet Ianthe didn’t know why she would think that.

They plunged deeper and deeper, passing by an underground lake and hundreds of towering stalactites and stalagmites. Hagrid looked to be turning green, and Ianthe hoped he wouldn't be sick all over her.

After that, Hagrid had to take a few minutes supported by the wall, knees trembling as he tried to get his face back from green to its normal rosy colour. 

The goblin led them over to an iron door, odd symbols carved into it with a large wheel to spin. 

As Griphook opened the door with the key Ianthe handed him, a lot of green smoke came billowing out. As it cleared, Ianthe's eyes widened. She could spot mounds of gold and columns of teetering silver. Even a small mountains-load of little bronze Knuts right in the middle. 

"All yours," Hagrid smiled, following her lithe form as she stepped into the vault. She turned to Griphook who stared back impassively.

She raised a single brow, and then, quite unexpectedly, he sighed -- "Little lordlings don't even know they're exchange rates from Knut to Sickle and Sickle to Galleon…" he muttered.

Clearing his throat, he droned on in a monotone voice, "The gold pieces are Galleons, seventeen silver Sickle's to a Galleon," he intoned, "and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. You must have your key to access your vault," he gestured to the little golden key which he had returned to Ianthe, "otherwise you must commission another, the process through which requires your blood." Obviously there was an unspoken general rule there that Ianthe did not know about the importance of blood.

"The conversions all use prime numbers?" Griphook grinned, though it was more jagged teeth than actual delight, "The Wixen lot never had much sense to begin with."

Hagrid seemed to be entertaining himself by trying to turn the mountain of Knuts into a fortress of some sorts. 

"And would this be my only vault?" She asked as she gazed at the gold, "The teller said my accounts manager was stationed in Ireland for some reason."

Griphook sniffed. "Goblins don't value idleness. We care about gold. And don't be stupid, Wix, this is your trust vault. It is meant to be spent for schooling and equipment, and anything else that passes your fancy. Anything else about your vaults you may discuss with your accounts manager."

Ianthe could tell she was grating on Griphooks nerves; obviously this wasn't in his job description. She grabbed a pouch -- brown moleskin with a great crest emblazoned on it, a stag with a triangle set in the background -- and filled it up with all the Galleons, Sickles and Knuts it could hold, which turned out, was quite a lot.

"I don't think yeh'll need that much Ianthe. Tha's a Potter heirloom, 'member James had tha' as well once, gotta have some hefty enchantments, not to mention that Undetectable Extension Charm. Must’a had been one o' your ancestors work, probably."

Ianthe hummed, adding some more Knuts under Hagrid's incredulous gaze. Quite finished with them, Griphook led them to the cart again, which, at the sight of, Hagrid turned green again. 

“Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please,” Hagrid said gruffly, “And can we go more slowly?” he asked as they clambered in. “One speed only.” Griphook grunted with a nasty smile, hurtling them deeper and deeper into the underground maze that was Gringotts.

The carriage hurled past faster and faster, going deeper and deeper, the air getting colder and colder as they turned tight corners. At one point, they passed an underground ravine, and Ianthe had been too tempted to miss it, after all, how often would you get to be this deep underground?

She had leant over; trying to see how far below it went. _Idiot,_ the voice had said, _you’ll fall to your death._

_And who are you to judge?_ Ianthe had snarled back in reply, unnecessarily annoyed with the voice in her head, she must’ve been going mad. Bonkers if she was talking to a figment of her imagination. _You're just the voice in my head,_ she affirmed, _you have no say._

Despite that, Hagrid pulled her back with a heady groan, looking as if he would vomit into the cold abyss at any moment. Ianthe was sure the goblins wouldn’t appreciate that, yet she wondered what Griphook would look like if some sick got on him.

But she would never find out as they came to a slow stop, pulling in front of a door with lines embedded into the gold door. Why a gold door? This door too had strange symbols, and yet Griphook passed them by without a glance. 

“Stand back,” Griphook said importantly. _Smarmy bastard,_ Ianthe thought with a scowl. He stroked the door with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away. 

“If someone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there.” Begrudgingly, Ianthe had to admit that was quite the fool proof security plan. “How often do you check in there?” Ianthe asked, unable to resist. “About once every ten years,” Griphook said with an appraising look and rather nasty grin. 

Hagrid made his way forward, Ianthe trailing behind. Ianthe leaned forward with a cool look in her eyes, yet eager all the same, expecting to see fabulous jewels or mounds of gold, maybe even some ancient book or artefact but at first glance it seemed empty. But there, on the floor, lay a small package wrapped in grubby brown paper. 

Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep in his pockets, Ianthe longed to ask what it was _(I as well,_ said the voice) but she knew better, however reluctant.

Hagrid turned to her one again, “Come on,” he walked towards the cart, following Griphook, “Le’s get back in tha’ infernal cart. Mind though; don’t talk to me on the way back. Be better if I keep me mouth shut,” he shook his head as they sped off, the wind whipping at the both of them. 

* * *

They made their way outside Gringotts, the sun partially blinding them as they moved through the large crowds. Hagrid seemed to be looking for someone, probably Professor Quirrell, yet he and even Ianthe couldn’t spot the purple-turbaned man. 

“Ah!” Hagrid cried out, “There he be, come on Ianthe, let’s get goin’. I’ll drop yeh off with ‘im, he’s gonna do the rest of yer shoppin’ with yeh and then I’ll collect yeh from Ollivanders, ‘right?”

Before Ianthe could ask what Ollivanders was, Hagrid was already pushing past the crowd to Professor Quirrell who seemed to already be in conversation with a tall brunette with blue eyes who seemed somewhat exasperated as she talked in low tones, decked in an odd assortment of necklaces around her neck. Corkscrews, symbols and charms -- even a radish! 

Her hand clenched at her side as she talked, mouth moving infinitely fast. She seemed to spot the pair approaching as her face smoothed out, eyes returning to a clear blue. “My -- Quirinus,” she said, “It seems you have company,” She gestured to Hagrid and Ianthe herself, a serene smile on her lips. 

Professor Quirrell turned posture straight and confident, unlike in the Leaky Cauldron where he had been a quivering mess, “It seems I do,” he smiled, all teeth it seemed, and it set Ianthe even more on edge. 

“Hagrid, Miss. Potter, you have completed your Gringotts run, I presume?” 

“Aye,” Hagrid said with a bright smile, “Ianthe’s got everythin’ she needs an’ a little extra. ‘Ow was your errands Prof’sser?” 

“Quite smooth, I --” The brunette woman butted in without a care, “The Ugoraia’s seem to want you to introduce me to your friends, Quirinus. I would not be opposed to the idea,” she snarked. Professor Quirrell seemed to look furious as he gazed at the woman, “Of course,” he said smoothly, not the least bit amused with the woman even from his easy smile, but his eyes, a pale blue that seemed just _wrong_ glinted viciously; Hagrid didn’t seem to notice, but Ianthe just knew, after all, it was those eyes that told another story. “Hagrid, Miss. Potter, meet Kalypso Arvanitis, who works in the Ministry Archives; Kalypso, Hagrid as you know, and Miss. Potter, who is due to start the school term in September.”

“Pleasure,” she smiled, hands twitching, “It’s not every day you meet the Wixen world’s _saviour,_ ” she relished the word, as if greatly amused. Ianthe eyes her warily, nerves on end, “Ianthe or Miss. Potter is fine,” Ianthe said instead, “It’s bad enough that everyone seems to already know about me.” _And my story, which Hagrid still hasn’t bothered to tell me._

“Humility,” she seemed impressed, “Anyone else your age would be boasting to the high heavens. But you’ll find the fame can be to your advantage, however unwanted. After all, it can be to your advantage; the young Malfoy wouldn’t stop boasting about getting to be in your year, did you know? I’d keep a tight leash on him.” Professor Quirrell’s eyes narrowed at her, mouth frowning.

"But I must be on my way, I can’t keep those pesky goblins waiting, I’m afraid; " she said abruptly, "Some business to attend to at Gringotts, such a bother." 

Ianthe wondered how sane she was, calling the goblins _pesky_ (but to be fair, Ianthe would’ve said the same about Griphook.) She only smiled serenely at them though; eyes alight in mischief as she disappeared into the crowd, her hair swaying with the breeze as they all watched her leave.

"Right," Hagrid said loudly, drawing attention from a passing gaggle of redheads who quickly returned to their business, "Mus' be on me way as well. Lots to do; I'll leave Ianthe in yer hands, Prof'ssor?" 

"Certainly," came Professor Quirell's reply, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder as his fingers brushed over her collarbone, directly above where her scar lay along with the accompanying writing, a sudden jolt surging through Ianthe and Professor Quirrell too by the looks of it. "You needn't worry Hagrid, everything will be alright."

Hagrid smiled, turning a kind smile to Ianthe, "Yer in good hands Ianthe. I'll come an' pick you up later, once yer done. See ya later," He clapped her on the forearm -- her knees buckled at the unexpected force -- as he disappeared in the crowds, turning a corner onto a place called Knockturn Alley _(The true place for the ones of power,_ the voice said, _is where there is no need for such thing as restrictions. For that, Knockturn is the place to go.)_

As she watched Hagrid leave, Ianthe felt as if she had been suddenly left alone, not abandoned entirely, just forgotten for the moment.

She turned to Professor Quirrell, who looked at her with a strange gaze, as if he had been presented with a particularly troubling puzzle. "Lead the way, Professor."

"It is only expected, Miss. Potter." He drawled, both hands coming to rest behind his back, moving forward with expectation of her to follow. It made Ianthe unnecessarily irritated. 

_How dare he presume her to follow!_ She thought. She had never allowed herself to mindlessly follow with the crowd; she had always been the one to scout out the possibilities, to test the limits when no adult helped her. She had never followed, she had always led, yet it seemed that this would be something she would have to get used to. Ianthe frowned at his retreating figure, quickly walking to catch up. 

“Finally decided to catch up, Miss. Potter?” Quirrell said, a cruel glint in his eye; Ianthe did not like it, and she was so very sure that she would not like this trip or the Professor very much either. She wondered how she would survive the year if she had to put up with him, “I would never let myself be left behind, Professor;” she quipped back as he raised his eyebrow, the both of them disappearing into the crowds, purple robes swishing and a messy-haired girl walking beside him as they set off to the first destination Quirrell had in mind: Madam Malkins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Quirrell was AGONISING!  
> I just -- how do you write a good somewhat (if not full) psychopath charmer in a possessed body successfully???
> 
> Bleurgh! So, in all, we see Ianthe spot the different names/words/phrases on people, and their bracelets/bandages/pieces of cloth. I'd like to believe that the thing you use to cover it is also a way to show your unique identity and maybe even a fashion statement. Did you know who the guy in the Leaky Cauldron who wore shabby robes was? And KALYPSO! Any guesses about her?
> 
> BUT ANYWAY, thank you for the lovely kudos and comments from the last chapter!
> 
> Don't be afraid to say hi and tell me your thoughts, they are greatly appreciated and loved and do well to keep me motivated! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> \-- inkwardspots


	5. madam malkins, ollivanders, soulmates -- burning and burning, how much more can she take?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianthe meets a certain lord and his son, something unexpected happens, Professor Quirrel explains soulmates, she gets a pet (and one more), meets ollivander and finally learns why she is so famous.
> 
> (how she wishes she didn’t)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IS MY (LATE) HALLOWEEN TREAT TO YOU! Heads up! This is roughly 18K, so it might be a bit of a read!

Ianthe was quick to realize that Professor was a quick walker, someone who didn’t have time for dilly-dallying, it seemed. He took not a second to slow down, and instead the path cleared for him, some wavering between crossing across him but deciding not to because of some reason beyond themselves.

Ianthe hurried behind him, like a duckling after its mother; unlike Hagrid, however, Professor Quirrell didn't seem inclined to wait for her, often leaving Ianthe behind. In the past ten minutes they'd been walking, Ianthe had been toppled over by some adult at least three times and had had to push and shove against the tidal waves of people in order to find Professor Quirrell who didn't even seem to notice that Ianthe wasn't trailing behind him anymore and was instead looking ahead intently, a barely noticeable play of the lips telling Ianthe that he had the reason to believe that she was still there.

He stopped in front of a shop displaying a moving mannequin that seemed to twirl every now and then, showcasing a soft blue robe as well as another mannequin that held a purple robe covered in sequins.

Ianthe finally caught up, face hot as she panted over her knees,”....understand, Miss. Potter?"

He turned around to her, eyes inquiring yet still cold, cold,  _ cold _ . 

“Yes,” she breathed out, heart skipping a beat as she tried to catch her breath. Quirell’s eyes narrowed,  _ “Do not lie to me; _ It will be of no use. Now tell me, did you even listen, Potter?” Ianthe’s eyes started to glow a fraction, her temper rising despite her need to contain it, “No.” she bit out, teeth clenched, “You were walking too fast, so I couldn’t keep up.” 

“Was that so hard?” he smiled, but it was all teeth, it didn’t belong on his face, no matter how much he tried to fake it, “Come, we’ll get your uniform Miss. Potter. We should get you some new clothes as well; I wonder why on Earth you would wear those rags.”

Ianthe flushed at that, a clench of the jaw as he opened the door and walked in, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she had followed him in, like waiting for a disobedient pet.  _ He knows nothing,  _ said the voice,  _ and he will learn nothing, but control your temper, fool.  _

The door cluttered shut as she walked in, assaulted by light snip-snaps and the quiet murmur of both staff and customers. A woman rushed forward, a smiling squat witch with streaks of auburn in her mostly-grey hair, a pair of glasses perched upon her nose and dressed in mauve. 

Quirrell looked around the shop, an air of disinterest but eyes sharpening when he spotted a man dressed in black robes with silky platinum locks in the corner. He ignored the both of them, eyes still intent upon the man as Ianthe started to speak, “Hogwarts uniform, please. Oh, and do you provide normal daywear?” 

The woman tutted, “‘Course,” she cast a glance at the Professor who only waved her away, “Do choose something decent, Potter.” he said, eyes narrowed at her skinny form, all bones and odd limbs, messy hair and acidic eyes, a suspicion forming. 

“We’ve got the uniforms, we all do, even old Twilfitt and Tattings.” she wrinkled her nose at the name as she walked Ianthe towards an empty stall beside a pale-faced boy, “Bunch of price-risers. The question is, would you like muggle wear or Wixen wear, dearie?” Ianthe bit her lip, soft and supple under her teeth, “How about both?” 

The woman nodded -- a kind smile on her lips, a stark contrast from Quirrell’s sharp one. “Right you are, we'll sort that out after your uniform. Got another lad being fitted up right now, as a matter of fact.” She led Ianthe to a footstool next to a pale, pointy-faced boy with grey eyes and alabaster hair being decked up in a long, draping piece of cloth -- the Hogwarts uniform probably; she could make out the pale crest on the side, without any emblem decoration. 

Ianthe stepped up onto the school, the woman –  _ Madam Guinevere,  _ Ianthe belatedly realised, from her name tag -- slipped a matching robe over her head as Madam Guinevere set about pinning it the right length. 

“Hullo,” said the boy, a keen look in his eyes and something else -- excitement and -- nervousness?

“Hogwarts too?”

“Yes,” said Ianthe. 

“My mother’s out collecting books, and father’s in the shop somewhere, he must’ve wandered off.” The boy had a bored drawling voice, “After that, we’re getting my wand from Ollivanders. I still don’t know why Gregovitch can’t just come over from Germany.” 

_ So Ollivander’s a wandmaker, and Gregovitch too, by the sounds of it, _ Ianthe thought. 

“Maybe because he’s got better things to do with his time?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, “He’d be honoured to provide a wand for a Malfoy, why on Hekate’s name wouldn’t he?” 

“Hold on,  _ Malfoy _ ?” 

The boy smirked, “I see my reputation precedes me,”

“Not in the way you might think.” Ianthe grinned, “I met someone today, she said that you were boasting about” -- _ act like you don't know her  _ \-- “Potter being in our year,” 

Malfoy turned pale with dread, “It was Kalypso wasn’t it? She heard!” He flushed in embarrassment, two red splotches against his cheeks as Ianthe watched, the two women still snipping away, seemingly ignoring their conversation. 

“How do you know her?” Ianthe asked, sending a glance around the room to find Professor Quirrell was but was only minutely surprised when she couldn’t find him. 

“She and my father are business associates, they’re also related -- first cousins, I think.” He jutted his chin out, “She says she works for the Ministry Archives, but I think she’s an Unspeakable.” He had a  conspiratorial look on his face, as if he was divulging a great secret. 

“Unspeakable?”

Malfoy smirked a little, “They work in the Department of Mysteries -- researching about experimental potions and such, deciphering forbidden texts, learning about Soulmate Magic, even if most say that it’s impossible to truly understand it.” 

He looked as if he had been struck by a thought, he seemed more enthused than the boy from earlier who had spoken with a cold drawl but now with a voice tinged with excitement. She had spoken with him for a few minutes, carried out a proper conversation, and for the girl with so few friends her age, it was invigorating. She should probably get his name though; calling him Malfoy in her head didn’t seem very polite. 

“Say, have you met your soulmate yet?”

“Soulmate?”

“Yes. Of course, I haven’t met mine yet, but I’d hate for them to be a mudblood wouldn’t you?”

Ianthe hummed, and wondered,  _ Soulmate?  _

Madam Guinevere tutted, eyes piercing, “No use of that word in this establishment, lad. Best mind your tongue; never know what trouble it’ll get you into.” She returned to her work as the boy turned his head away from her with a “Humph!”

Another word to learn about,  _ mudblood  _ and  _ soulmate _ .  _ I wonder why Madam Guinevere told Malfoy not to use it? _

They lapsed into a short lull of silence. “What house do you think you’ll be in?” he carried on without waiting for an answer, “Of course, no one really knows what house they’ll be in, but I’m sure I’ll be in Slytherin, the best of the best, the most pure of the lot; every Malfoy has gone there, though we’ve had the occasional Ravenclaw.” he said importantly as Ianthe watched on as he puffed his chest out, like a peacock. “Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave -- but Gryffindor would be worse, don’t you?”

“The thing is, Malfoy, I’m not sure what house I’ll be in. If houses run in the family, I might go to my parents’ house, but I’m not even sure what house they were in.”

“Not sure? By the sound of it, your parents must have been of our kind,  _ wix _ , you know, how can you not know their house? I mean --”

“They're dead. I was raised by muggle-relatives; I only got my letter today. ” 

“Oh, sorry.” he said, he didn’t seem very sorry, but to be fair, he hadn’t even know them. The only connection he had to them was their daughter in the robes shop that was raised by muggles that he seemed to be having a chat with. “But having to live with muggles, how awful! How  _ beastly _ .” Beastly was the right word for Uncle Vernon that was for sure, Ianthe thought vindictively. “Who brought you here then? Don’t tell me the muggles came here!” he swerved his head around, as if trying to spot the supposed-muggles. 

Ianthe looked the blonde oddly, “‘Course not, Malfoy. Don’t be daft,” she turned away from the boy, looking for the purple-turbaned man as she watched the boy flush in embarrassment from the corner of her eye. 

“He’s over there,” she gestured with her head towards a collection of seats where Quirrell lounged, one leg crossed over the other by the looks of it, as if a king even when sitting in a squashy armchair, conversing with a man with the same pale locks as Malfoy, the older Malfoy by the looks of it irate and surprised, judging by the quizzical look on his face as he talked with Quirrell. 

“That’s Professor Quirrell, he brought me here. He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hagrid said he taught Muggle Studies before though. Hagrid said he doesn't believe he’ll last, something about a curse on the position?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “Muggle Studies though!” he said outraged, “What is a Muggle Studies Professor going to teach us about Defence? It would've been best if he stayed with that wishy-washy subject; like we need another class on top of that Muggle Culture class. Tch!” he scoffed, turning his head. 

“All done dearie,” Madam Guinevere chirped at last, cutting a final spare piece of thread. Ianthe hopped off, Malfoy done too by the looks of it. They slipped the uniforms off, the assistant taking them and scurrying away -- probably to wrap them up and check them over. 

Ianthe looked around for Quirrell, spotting him still in conversation with Malfoy Snr. Quirrell seemed extremely amused though, not that the elder Malfoy noticed as he carried on blasé, waving his hand about as he stood with Quirrell after he seemed to spot that his son had finished. The scar on Ianthe collar tingled once more, an odd feeling of amusement spreading even though Ianthe found nothing to be funny at the moment. Something was definitely wrong with it, but she didn’t feel comfortable checking right now. 

The two made their way forward. Malfoy the younger straightened, the excitement spilling over into a grin. “Father,” he greeted with a small dip of the head as he addressed the older man, Quirrell coming up to stand behind Ianthe, “I’ve finished up with my uniform. The assistant should be bringing it soon.”

The older man nodded, “Good, Draco. I’ve just been conversing with Professor Quirrell, he’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.” He sneered. It could either be at the subject name or even the Professor teaching it. “I’m sure he’ll report to me if you are anything less than satisfactory, yes?” with a small turn of the head and nod to his son, a shoulder coming to rest on the boy's shoulder. Lucius turned to the Professor, an inquiring look, as if he expected to be followed without question. 

The funny thing was, it seemed quite the opposite, as if instead,  _ he  _ was the one being played, by Professor Quirrell no less! And yet, when Professor Quirrell spoke, he had reverted back to his stuttering, “O-Of c-c-c-course, M-m-mister Malfoy.” 

The man --  _ Lucius Malfoy. Slippery bloke, tha’ man.  _ \-- curled his lip, “Lord Malfoy, Quirrell.” Quirrell’s eyes flashed dangerously, something Malfoy -- excuse her, Draco, seemed to notice, as well. 

Something was going to happen, because for whatever reason, Quirrell didn’t seem at all happy to have to call Malfoy Snr.  _ Lord _ . 

_ He shouldn’t have to call that imbecile a Lord at all, he can’t even recognize his own Master,  _ the voice said,  _ He’ll be dead by the evening, what on Earth did Abraxas teach his child? _

Ianthe not-so-smoothly interrupted, “If you’re done with your grandstanding,” --  _ What are you doing! _ \-- was it the voice or her? Maybe both of them -- “I’m sure you have some business to attend to, your wife must be waiting.” 

Lucius sent her a quizzical eye, an already perfected sneer making edging its way “And who might your new friend be, Draco?” Draco stood next to her, “This is -- is…'' he trailed off, only realising now that he had neglected to ask for the girl’s name. Ianthe smirked, extending her hand outward towards the elder man as Quirrell moved closer behind her, his robes brushing against the back of Ianthe’s ankles, her foot lifting to step on something. “Potter, Mr. Malfoy. Ianthe Lily Potter.” His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as Draco let out a short, sharp gasp, his pale cheeks flushing as he stared at the girl, the girl who had been informed by Kalypso of his boasting of being in her year, which she had grinned about not even a few minutes ago. 

“Is that true?” The Malfoy Lord looked down upon her (literally) before extending his hand in turn, “Pleasure, Miss. Potter,” He took his hand back, somewhat surprised from the skinny girl who held such a strong grip, “I must be on my way, but I am sure we will meet again soon, Miss Potter,” Not a hope, but a fact. “Come Draco, your mother must be waiting.” He strode out the door, heeled-boots clicking firmly against the wood floor as Draco followed behind, the younger blond casting a final glance behind as his father waved his wand, collecting the proffered bag of uniform that the shop assistant had been about to offer. 

Both Quirrell and Ianthe watched them leave, one wondering and the other calculating, yet both knowing that this meeting would set a precedent for many more. 

They stared after them for a scant thirty seconds, watching as the two pale-haired males met an equally pale-haired woman, this one with high aristocratic cheekbones and the same grey eyes as Draco, she turned her head, staring right at them through the window as Madam Guinevere came nearer, before Malfoy’s wife turned back her gaze, a hand wrapping itself around her husband’s arm as another came to stroke her son’s hair, her husband's hand resting upon his son’s shoulder as he led them away, happy and content.

_ ( _m_ y darling, mama loves you, i will always be with you, you understand? mama loves you, papa loves you, you are so loved, never forget we love you, darling… protect her, Lady Hekate. _ ) 

A forlorn feeling, deep within, a hope within, saying  _ someday, we will have that. someday.  _

“Miss. Potter,” a smooth, gravelled voice spoke from behind her, “Just how long exactly do you plan on stepping on my foot?” 

Ianthe whipped around, panic filling her lungs as she stumbled backwards, tripping over the Professor’s robes as she tumbled onto the floor, eyes blown wide. From the floor, she looked up to the man, who only stared back with eyes glinting red in the sun and an unimpressed and impassive look on his face. 

“Tch,” he scoffed as Madam Guinevere hurried forward, helping her up with a muttered, “Poor dear,” evidently not overhearing her pronouncement of her name a few minutes earlier. “Come,” she tutted, “Let’s get you out of those rags and into the dressing room, I’m sure we’ll have something for you to wear… you’ll obviously want a full wardrobe, daywear  _ and  _ nightwear, a few formal pieces, how about winter wear? Autumn wear as well, maybe…? Those eyes, powerful magic, deserve only a powerful wardrobe, maybe  _ Witch’s Night  _ fabric, or even  _ Vocem Persephone _ …how about  _ Arsenic Meadow?”  _

She dragged Ianthe along by the bony wrist, unknowing or maybe undaunted by the fierce and deadly glowering sent from the green-eyed girl. The Professor let a quirk of the lips --  _ maybe all I need to defeat her is a persistent seamstress?  _ \-- amused despite not wanting to, calling out a barb to the short heighted and skinny girl --  _ too short, too skinny, too malnourished _ \--  _ you suspect, don’t you? --  _ “Be sure to dress decently, won’t you, Potter? I’d hate to see you as a laughing stock on the first day.” 

Ianthe turned her head, eyes blazing an equally cutting barb on her tongue, “You can count on it, Professor, I’d hate to disappoint my  _ favourite  _ Professor, after all.” she finished sweetly, hair voluminous and untameable as it trailed behind her, a quick glowing of the eyes sent as Quirrell’s own lighted with interest, red and wild, wondering if those tell-tale eyes had been a trick of the light or not, wondering if the phantom jolt he had been sent when he had brushed her collar had been part of the prophecy’s connection or not. 

Wondering, wondering, and undoubtedly soon knowing. 

* * *

After being manhandled by Madam Guinevere, after being pinched and prodded, being encompassed with measuring tapes and spare needles put in somewhere or the other, with her scar tingling and tingling all the while, she had been shoved in a dressing room with the orders to  _ wear those muggle robes and wixen ones, will you dearie? we’ll use those as a basis for the formal wear ones, that’ll take a while longer but we’ll owl them over, darling. _

After being accosted by the -- frankly -- too-judgemental mirror  _ (Look at that hair! All split ends and much too ragged, you’ll want to pay a visit to the salon, dear, unless it’s Potter hair, nothing you can do about Potter hair, dear, even my enchanter knew that, and he was a daft fellow, I tell you -- But those eyes, have you tried Knightley’s Eyeliner? Eye liner could really make those pop, you know…) _ Ianthe had slid her ragged t-shirt over her head, her off-colour vest peeking through, the muggle clothes (when had  _ normal clothes  _ become  _ muggle clothes?)  _ set to one side, consisting of a few pairs of jeans, baggy pants, a few dresses, some tee shirts -- some short-sleeved, others long and a few elbow-length -- and a few pairs of shoes. 

Her Wixen robes on the other hand, were standard cut she had been told -- perfect for a day about and casual wear, she had chosen to have a robe made of Witch’s Night, opting for embroidered designs in the hem, lilies, in honour of her mother. Witch’s Night had been a colour Madam Guinevere had told set off her already striking eyes, but she had also chosen other robes -- it seemed the Wixen population preferred eye-catching bright colours. From electric blue to neon green, Madam Guinevere had also informed her that colours could be changed on request, thanks to a nifty little spell, but the fabric quality would deteriorate if the fabric had magical properties and was especially resistant. 

In the end, she had decided on a daring shade of fabric called  _ Vocem Persephone,  _ a deadly green with darker undertones that wrapped around her form. She had also tried an olive green robe, which had set against her skin tone nicely along with a light purple one with metallic, gold buttons down the front, reminiscent of some of Miss. Nirmala’s more traditional clothing from India, a  _ salwar kameez,  _ she had once called it, but those would take longer to make and would be sent along later. She had chosen all her robes, had been given input from Madam Guinevere that she didn’t look completely hideous, and had gone to check herself in the mirror to see if her muggle clothes fit, but that didn’t explain her wide-eyed stare into the mirror at all;

No, in fact, the reason she stared into the mirror was because of her collarbone, more specifically, the scar on her collarbone, the one that had only ever been a small zig-zag ranging to only five centimetres long, but now seemed to have  _ grown _ , travelling slightly down her back and across her collarbone. 

She blanched. 

It had grown? Was that why it had been tingling all morning? She brought a finger up, tracing the now-extended lightning bolt scar. How? It wasn’t possible, a scar wasn’t meant to grow! It was a mark, a layer of not completely healed tissue. It had been with her all her life, like the name  _ Voldemort  _ \-- the name that even now stayed a not-quite blood red, that stayed and persisted -- the name which had been whispered in a dark cupboard and under heavy stairs. But the scar, she had traced this scar, reassured in its continuity, but now her life had evolved, she had been introduced to magic, had been forced to change… and so too, it seemed, had her scar. Was that it? Had the magic, this exhilarating feeling, affected her scar? Or had it always had the ability to grow, and only just now decided to implement it? 

She didn’t know, but it was a mystery for a later time as Madam Guinevere took that moment to knock upon the door, “Dearie, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine!” Ianthe called out, pulling on an a olive-green t-shirt with short sleeves that brushed past her hips to mid thighs, a boat neckline that showed the pointed tip of her scar, and pulled on a grey hoodie as she added a pair of leggings to the ensemble and some flat shoes, a light crème with a black buckle. “I’ll be out in a moment, Madam!” 

Ianthe emerged from the dressing room, clenching onto the ends of her shirt, the other clothes folded nicely in her hands as she stood nervously. Madam Guinevere tutted, “Yes,” she muttered, one of the shop girls taking the spare clothes from Ianthe, glancing both unabashedly and curiously at the tip of Ianthe’s scar, but was scared off with a pointed glare from the young girl herself. 

Madam Guinevere cast a last glance at Ianthe’s form, casting a final spell to make the neckline smaller, effectively making the scar disappear from sight, “Right you are, Miss. Potter,” she smiled at Ianthe’s taut form at  _ Miss. Potter,  _ “We’ll send your robes along later, those’ll take a little longer of course, but you’ll get them soon enough.” She gestured to the bags on a cushioned seat, “Your uniform, dear, plus winter cloak and that God-awful hat that Dumbledore  _ always -- always! --  _ insists on putting on the list.” she mumbled under her breath for a bit, something about  _ tradition my arse! _ “Anyhow, we’ll use those measurements with the fabric we picked earlier. Oh, and the nightwear will be sent later as well, of course, it’ll be a surprise from us, so don’t worry Miss. Potter, you’re in safe hands.” she smiled again, tapping her wand against the bags, the lot of them shrinking as Ianthe watched amazed, a whimsical smile emerging. 

“Once you get your wand, just tap it against the side and it’ll enlarge, dear, got that? Come now, that Professor of yours must be waiting.” Ianthe grew indignant, “He’s not  _ my  _ Professor!” Madam Guinevere laid a hand on Ianthe shoulder as she handed the green-eyed girl the shrunken bags, leading her towards Quirrell who seemed to be staring out the shop window, lounging on the chair like a king “Didn’t you say Quirinus was your favourite Professor?”

“As an act, yes, certainly not in seriousness, Madam.” 

Madam Guinevere hummed behind the counter as Ianthe drew out the necessary Galleons (32) and Sickles (73), “I see, Miss. Potter,” she said, collecting the Galleons with a _ flick _ of her wand and a  _ Wingardium Leviosa,  _ “I had not expected Quirinus to act as he did, you see, dear. He seems much more cold, he was never like this during that brief stint as one of our shop assistants.” 

Ianthe might have snorted a bit at the cold-eyed and sharp-toothed Professor as a clothes assistant, but no one but her needed to know. Madam Guinevere finished putting the money away, handing Ianthe her change, before handing her a brochure for postal service deliveries for Madam Malkins. Ianthe had a burning question though, “Madam, how did you know it was me? I mean, I was Ianthe Potter? I don’t think you heard my brief stint with the Malfoys.”

“Dear, did you not know? Your magical signature practically screams differently than others, more powerful than the average wix. You would need to be after all, for what you did,”  _ what have i done, tell me! _ \-- but I’ve only met a few others who have a more powerful magical signature than others. Mind you, not everyone has this ability,” she tutted, casting a glance towards the purple-robed man who seemed to be getting impatient, “Quirinus never had much of a powerful aura, more into books, but he seems to have gained more raw magic than before, he seems to be repressing it though. I hope he hasn’t got into trouble, dear…” 

Ianthe grew hungry for more knowledge at the words of  _ magical signatures _ , “Can anyone learn to read magic signatures?” 

Madam Guinevere smiled fondly at Ianthe’s curiosity, “No, not anyone. The ability is passed genetically; it sometimes skips a generation or two. I remember someone -- who? Oh yes! -- Dorea Black, she was a mentor for some of the other children with magical signatures, she taught me a few times as well, she was exceptional at reading different people’s auras, the Aurors and Unspeakables simply begged her to join their departments.” Madam Guinevere remembered fondly.

“She married your great-grandfather I believe, Charlus Potter -- caused quite a stir in the Wizengamot when he married Dorea. The Potter’s have always had a latent ability, it boosted the ability when they married and produced Fleamont, your grandfather, he never had an active ability but it was enough to get him into the course at Hogwarts. Terrible that he died of Dragon Pox, you know? But I’m getting away with myself,” she laughed jovially, “come along, dear; we mustn’t keep Quirinus waiting too long, such an eager and impatient Ravenclaw, after all.” 

In that conversation, Ianthe had learnt more about her family -- her father’s family -- than ever before. She had held her mother and Severus close, her father as well, but now she knew of others; Dorea Potter née Black, her great-grandmother, an exceptional magical signature reader, Charlus Potter, her great-grandfather, and Fleamont Potter, her grandfather -- her dad’s dad! -- who had been enough of a magical signature reader to get into this course at Hogwarts, this magical signature reading at Hogwarts. She wondered if she would have this ability as well. 

And Ravenclaw, why had she heard that name before, not from Draco, but somewhere else? 

Madam Guinevere stood a little ways off from Professor Quirrell, wary as she waved Ianthe off. Ianthe walks towards the man, who stared out the window, “Are you done, Miss. Potter?” he said, still staring out the window, eyes trailing over the passing figures. 

“Yes, Professor.” He turned to her, casting a glance over her form, “It will do,” he said at last, lingering on her collarbone, phantom tingles travelling through him as he drew his gloved fingers together. He stood, “At least you don’t look like a street urchin anymore.” Ianthe bristled, teeth clenching and glaring outright as he turned around, probably not oblivious but very much amused, “Come, we must be off.” he cast a glance back at her as he opened the door, assessing her skinny form once more. 

She stepped out the door, eyes immediately drawn to the parlour, specifically, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. She stared at it for a moment, before dragging her eyes away reluctantly. 

_ You suspect, and yet you don't grant her this? How many times have we gone hungry, how many times were we exorcised, how many were we called demon, devil--?! _

**...I thought I’d stamped you out, all those years ago, the damned remains of my conscience?**

_ Obviously not, but look at her! Tell me you do not feel; tell me that what happened to us -- to you -- was not real. Look, look her in the eye -- you must. _

Look at her? 

Why, it was the only thing he could do at the moment. He looked, the vestiges of the Dark Lord Voldemort’s soul, and he looked; looked at the child of the prophecy, whose very touch sent a jolt through him (the connection or something else?), he looked at the girl destined to bring his downfall, at the last remains of his loyal servant’s foolish mudblood love (but who was he to talk? he had not ever felt something as  _ pure _ , as  _ weak _ , as  **love** .)

He looked at her glowing eyes (pure power, pure might; _ “... only power and those too weak to seek it, my Knights! It is because of this, we will reign!”),  _ he looked at her skinny form ( _ lashings,  _ the Priest had said, pulling the rope tighter and tighter, tying him against the chair,  _ are men’s punishment against men. This,  _ he got closer, inching closer, saliva flying against the young boy’s face, Holy Water doused on him -- the sixth exorcism, after all -- sending him spluttering,  _ is God’s punishment against Satan. --  _ Odd, Tom thought faintly, four years old and too young, I thought it was your punishment against me, for being different? --  _ With the Lord’s blessing, we will cure you,  _ and so the chants began.)

He looked at her thin frame and unruly hair, at the destined enemy;  _ Remember all you have wilfully forgotten and thrown away, and you will sympathise. _

_... _

**_Please... have mercy... have mercy.... Not Ianthe, not my darling girl! Please, not her!_ **

_ (...disgusting.) _

_... _

He looked, and his eyes hardened, “Let’s…  _ snack _ somewhere, Potter." He strode forward, leaving her trailing behind, "You'll complain all the while, otherwise." 

He pulled up a chair for her, a flick of his trusty wand, “Well?”

She smiled, bounding forward, plopping herself down as she brang the menu closer.

_ Well done. _

_ (Weak -- weak to your conscience, weak to the girl! What next,  _ **_Tom_ ** _?) _

He looked at her, thin smiles and thin bones, too brittle and too  _ weak,  _ and he cursed;  _ why do I stare at a reflection of myself? _

{We mock and mock and mock, yet those eyes, burning and  _ burning _ , haunt us forever--}

* * *

Ianthe looked around, eyes wide as she looked around, noticing how Quirrell watched her with narrowed eyes as they waited for ice cream (she had been shocked when Quirrell had ordered a vanilla and blueberry with chocolate sauce to contrast her own raspberry and chocolate with chopped nuts). Nonetheless, Ianthe still noticed the many people with festive bandanas and colourful bracelets, or still too the people with  _ words _ , with phrases and  _ names  _ scrawled anywhere and everywhere -- their wrists, straight across their cheeks and even some large ones on their arms, wrapped around like a bracelet. 

A gangly sort of boy, pimples across his face with fair hair and dressed in a mangled-with-ice-cream apron presented their ice creams in rather large glasses, each perfected and sure to be tasting heavenly by the looks of it. Accompanied with the glass, was a small plastic spoon. Ianthe popped the treat into her mouth, watching as Quirrell did the same, an appreciative look sent at the dish by the older man, despite Ianthe’s incredulous thoughts at him enjoying ice cream. Sometimes, in the moments of tinted red eyes, it seemed as if he was otherworldly, as if he was to be feared, and yet Ianthe wouldn’t let herself cower -- she had done too much of that already in her life.

Fake it till you make it, as they say.

Looking at the Professor again, it  _ seemed  _ like he was in a good enough mood -- so maybe Ianthe should make her move? Might as well, she thought. 

“Professor,” she started, bringing her spoon down from her mouth, ignoring his burning glance, “These people,” she looked at the passing crowds and then at him, “why do they have those pieces of cloth -- bandanas and bandages? Why do they have those bracelets? Why so some words against their skin? What do they mean?” 

The purple-turbaned man stopped still, the spoon halting at the brim of his lips, “It seems I must have  _ The Talk  _ with you.” he murmured eyes heavy and disbelieving at the thought of explaining the concepts of  _ soulmates  _ to his  _ arch nemesis _ .

He lay his spoon down, fingers coming to rest upon his lap, “Miss Potter,” he began, reminiscing of that horrible moment years ago when that blasted man had told him about soulmates, had told him that at their first touch ( _the touch of a lonely orphan boy and his destined)_ those words would appear, yet his had never did _(he had wished and wished, yet Hekate had not blessed him, and so he had turned his back on the notion of soulmates (of_ **_love_** _)._

“There is something I must explain to you,” --  _ don’t let it be what i think, don’t let it be what i think --  _ “It is something that most will have learned at an early age, but evidently you have been neglected,”  _ \-- don’t! --  _ “I will have to tell you about soulmates,”  _ \-- phew! wait -- soulmates? -- _ “seeing as  _ Hagrid,”  _ he sneered again,  _ utterly incompetent, _ he thought, “didn’t see fit to tell you, I will fill you in.”

“Soulmates,” he began, a hard look in his eye, “are, in the simplest form, your destined partner. Be they platonic or romantic or other, you have one. They will be with you always, they will haunt you, if we must put it that way, some say that Lady Hekate -- more commonly known as Mother Magic,” -- an echo in the depths,  _ protect her, Lady Hekate --  _ “made it so that each Wix had a soulmate; someone to complete each other with, more commonly in the form of romantic or platonic soulmates. You'll find the odd sibling or parent-child marks, even mentée and mentor. It all depends, and some forms have never been found out and are yet to be discovered; Soulmate Magick is a deep and complex thing, Potter.” he intoned, peering at her. 

“The marks are more commonly drawn upon the skin at birth; they can vary from single words to phrases and even more rarely, names. You’ll find some that are in foreign languages as well or even  _ dead  _ languages,” he said, twirling his wand together with deft fingers, in his element _ (‘e was fine studyin’ outta books // more into books).  _ Yet those hands that twirled the wand, upon closer look, they didn’t only hold the calluses of pens (or was it quills? She had spotted a shop showcasing a few earlier,), or just the nicks of paper cuts; they seemed more experienced, more agile, more fluid, than a typical person’s hands would be. 

“The marks,” he continued, “Are normally seen at birth, true, but some others will reveal themselves at other times; accidental magic,”  _ (--Lily, Lily! Did you see? Our baby girl, she summoned them! Her toys! She’s brilliant, she’s marvellous! She’ll be a pranking asset -- imagine Sirius’s face! Summoning spells! // James Potter! Our daughter is brilliant, I agree, but you will not use her to one up Sirius on those pranks -- James! Don’t you  _ **_dare_ ** _ throw the food  _ **_with_ ** _ Ianthe! No --” a loud giggle and even louder groans “Oh, why do I even bother with you two?” a fond smile and kiss to her husband's lips and her daughter’s forehead, “Like father, like daughter; troublemakers, the both of you. “But you love us?” “Was there even a need to ask? Of course I love the both of you; Till my dying breath, my sweet hellions.” -- ) _

“At a soulmate's first touch,”  _ (-- waiting, waiting, waiting, forever waiting // mocking, mocking, mocking, forever mocking --) _

“Or during a magical catalyst.” _ (-- not my baby girl! -- Avada Kedavra! -- a flash of green light -- asleep and bundled, unknowing but her collar, burning, burning,  _ **_burning_ ** _.) _

“Sometimes, people go on their whole lives without meeting their soulmates,”  _ \-- where are you? why do your eyes (demonic green with a ringlet of gold) haunt me? you left me alone before i even knew of you -- (i was always alone, wasn’t i? you had left me to be burnt // Gaunt or Riddle -- mother or father // she died in childbirth, boy, and she was no beauty. An ugly dying woman who birthed an even more tarnished and devilish son! -- devil, demon! you are no son of mine! // but instead, i will burn brighter than your foolish eyes can handle and i will burn your worlds down. burn, burn, _ **_burn!_ ** _ )  _ \-- “whilst some fall in love with others, following the more unconventional approach of  _ choosing  _ your soulmate, regardless of your true destined one.” --  _ was that it? you’ve fallen for someone else? you’ve left me, for someone who is not your own? fine! i have lived and thrived alone and i will gain glory alone! -- but in the night, in the blanket of darkness: don’t leave.  _ **_please._ **

“Regardless,”  _ forget, forget, forget,  _ “those marks can be placed anywhere upon the body.”  _ bury, bury, bury, _ “it is considered taboo to display or talk of your soulmark if you have not found them, so many choose to cover theirs with coverings; bandanas, bandages, bracelets, magical glamour’s.”  _ burn, burn, burn,  _ “while those who do not simply have their own marks in places where they can be covered by normal clothing.”  _ we need no one. ( _ **_we lie_ ** _.) _

The mark upon her collar:  _ Voldemort.  _

It was -- it was a soulmate mark. 

A name or a phrase? A foreign language or a dead language? 

_ vol gratuit, as we say -- flight for the free, in angláis, i believe, ms. smith? _

Vol – flight

_ …the french  _ _ preposition  _ **_de_ ** _ is generally defined as the three: of, from, or about. _

De – from

An inkling, a memory --  _ children, after me: la vie for life and mort without the ‘t’ for death. well done! _

Mort -- death. 

Vol-de-mort. 

Voldemort -- otherwise known as _ flight from death. _

A phrase that was taken as a name. 

Ianthe wondered what it meant, her mind tried to connect the pieces, scrambling and scrambling, but something was missing, some vital piece. What was it?

And yet, even then, Ianthe couldn’t hold back her elation. A  _ soulmate _ .

Someone just for her, someone to take hold of and someone who would cherish and hold her close, be that in whatever way; as a friend, as a mentor or even as someone to  _ love  _ (and someone who would love her in turn.) Her heart, it sped up, beating, beating, beating; warm and alive, so that she could meet this person, her person, so that she could look them in the eye and say  _ i am yours and you are mine, remember and never doubt. _

Nonetheless, despite her unbridled joy, she could savour over these moments later, by herself (and maybe tell Dudley). 

She had another question though, “Thank you Professor,” Quirrell hummed, “But what are Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Slytherin? Malfoy mentioned them when we were talking earlier, something about houses as well.” Quirrell hummed again, “Yes, I expect he would. Tell me, did he go on that Slytherin spiel again?  _ Best of the best  _ and  _ most pure of the lot _ ?” he mimicked, in an absurdly Malfoy-esque voice. 

“Yes,” Ianthe said slowly, “he did.” 

Quirrell leant back, “Slytherin and Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, those are all school houses. Upon entry into the school, you are sorted into one of the four; it is tradition to not tell how, so don’t bother asking -- it's also quite amusing, watching the lot of you scared witless.” he smirked, “Now come,” he said coldly, previous traces of amusement gone, “We have some shopping to do, I believe.” 

He walked away to pay and Ianthe leant back into her chair and glared mutinously at his back, “ _ Gosh _ ,” she grouched, “It’s not as if it’s the whole  _ point  _ of this bloody trip now, is it?”

* * *

They bought Ianthe’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with different books; some as large as paving stones covered in dark leather, books the size of postage stamps that were covered in silver silk and books that had only peculiar symbols written on the lot of them. Dudley had never even read a book, and yet Ianthe was sure he would love to get his hands on some of these _ (Prank Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies -- A Wix’s Guide to Revenge: Hair Loss, Jelly Legs, Tongue-Tying and much, much more!).  _

They got all the required books, yes, but then Professor Quirrell got all the additional books as well and dumped them in her arms, sending her toppling over onto the floor. As she muttered apologies and proceeded to pick up the books on the floor and dump them in her trolley, but then Quirrell swatted her hand and told her  _ “Gently!” _ (Who knew he got as worked up on setting his books down gently as Aunt Petunia did on her china -- “ _ Girl, don’t thrash them down like a hellion! Honestly, how many times? Gently!”) _

He turned his back and continued on, “Miss Potter, if you even want to be a somewhat  _ decent  _ student, I suggest reading those books before term starts. It will aid you in the long run, your Potions Professor will not hold back --” he turned back to the sight of Ianthe doing something with her hands, like a sock puppet, continuing to flap them about but abruptly pulling the offending hand behind her back. He blinked owlishly, his eyes narrowed, “Were you  _ mocking  _ me?” he grabbed the nearest book, a thin book titled  _ Potions: How Not To Be A Complete Dunderhead by Nero Anfri  _ and batted Ianthe round the head with it, sending her a narrowed smile and glowing red eyes, “None of that now, Miss Potter,” before dropping the book on her head once more, striding forward and trying to not to murder Potter in this possessed body due to her sheer audacity of  _ mocking  _ the Dark Lord!

A red-headed girl in the next aisle -- looking to be about nine grinned and her -- presumably -- older brothers (both twins) watched gobsmacked, jaws hanging, as Ianthe sheepishly rubbed the back of her head ( _ Bastard _ ) and waved to the small girl who waved back, before deciding to follow Quirrell again. She picked up the fallen book, and deciding it would be useful, tried to find Quirrell as he seemed to have taken the trolley with him _ (register your wand and the trolley’ll follow you, luv.) _

Nonetheless, on her search, she picked up some interesting books,  _ Soulmates: The Mystery, The Lore and The Fact by Niko Azaralon, Runes: A Beginner's Guide by Bathsheda Babbling  _ and  _ Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald: Rise, Fight and Fall co-authored by Bathilda Bagshot and Diane Orallius. _

In the end, she found him browsing the more dubious sections of Flourish and Blotts. “Professor?” 

“Miss Potter,” he dipped his head, “Have you selected your books?” --  _ How dare he, acting as if he didn’t whack me on the head! --  _ “Yes,” 

He smiled that cold smile, “Let us be off then,” 

* * *

Ianthe cast a look at the shop, urged by the hisses from it, ignorant of Quirrell’s narrowed gaze at her hungry look. “Can we go in there?” she asked, gesturing towards the  _ Magical Menagerie. _

“Very well,” he acquiesced. 

They entered the shop and were immediately assaulted by a repugnant smell. They turned to each other and wrinkled their noses, trying to dull the smell -- Quirrell with the end on his turban and Ianthe with her sleeve. A harried looking man, stringy in height and impossibly thin, smiled at them,“Welcome to The Magical Menagerie, don’t mind the smell -- we just got a shipment of Horklumps, they’ve been stinking up the shop for days! Been an absolute terror.” he panted from behind his facemask, “Air refresher charm on these, might wanna grab one. Two sickles each.” 

They paid their due, and breathed in relief -- well, Ianthe did. Quirrell only looked less repulsed. “Any who,” said the stringy man, “What can I do for you? We have domestics -- owls, cats, rats, even the odd crup, -- or we can do the wild -- kappa’s, kelpies, moke’s, how about a demiguise? Name it and we’ll do our best to provide it -- maybe not a dragon,” he winced, “bit tricky those, but anything else and we’re fine!” he said cheerfully, bringing his knees up and stamping it into a suspicious brown gloop, “Fertiliser, don’t worry.” He waved his wand about, much too theatrical and far to be of any use, and ever so slowly, a mop came to clean up the -- fertiliser (that was a sure lie.). 

“Charming,” Quirrell muttered from behind his mask, “Potter,” he said, leaning forward into her ear as the foolish man set along cleaning after the mop had fallen and bonked him on the head. “Choose your absurd pet and get outside, I’ll be waiting.” he walked out without another word, leaving Ianthe by herself with the disaster of the employee. 

He had finished mopping and turned to her, “Where too, girlie?” she retched in her mind --  _ Girlie! _ The voice said, outraged. “Reptiles, please.” she asked. “Follow me then,” he walked forward, nattering on all the while, something that Ianthe tuned out of. She cast an eye around, skipping rats, two cats and a litter dozing -- not cats,  _ Halfblood Kneazles,  _ the sign read. There was a little dog --  _ Crup  _ \-- with a forked tail feeding from its mother and a little fluff ball in a glass cage squeaking about --  _ Puffskeins _ , the information card said,  _ are the perfect pet for young ones. _

They happened upon the reptile section, where lizards -- some the size of her forefinger and others the size of her forearm -- roamed. The others that dominated here were snakes, hissing and spitting viciously whilst others lounged about, lying on their rocks and hissing for the others to  _ “sssssshut up…”  _

“Right,” the employee said nervously, “ -- err, you wouldn’t mind if I pop off, would you?” he gulped, flashing green as one of the snakes -- a two-toned green, the top darker while the lower lighter, a thin strip of black between the two as they merged together -- stared avidly at them -- at  _ Ianthe _ . 

“...of course not.” Ianthe said at last, glad to have the bothersome shop assistant gone.

“ _ Greetingssss… _ .” she said, watching as the others -- the ones who spat venom and curses, the ones who slept on, unbothered by the banalities of time -- grew eager at once, watching her hypnotically, as if she were the essence of magic itself.  _ “I have come,” _ she began,  _ “to choossssse one of you asssss my own.”  _

They hissed in synchronicity, the one who had stared at her the longest, the bearer of envious eyes and vicious fangs from the other serpents.  _ “Patience, my sssweetsss….”  _ in this grip, in the tongue of the deadly and the vicious, she sang sweetened words of poison and vengeance,  _ “but firsssst, entertain me.”  _ she demanded, eyes glowing as a sacred ritual -- it  _ was  _ sacred, she knew, deep in the roots of her bones -- took place. 

_ “Let me, let me!” _ some chanted, whilst others instead said,  _ “Sssssspeaker, sssssspeaker, choosssse me, pick me!” _

They all tried to impress, some hissed at her sweet lullabies, trying to coax her ear; others swayed methodically, musically, trying to enchant her with their beauty, with their skill. The only one who did not try, who did not even deign to show any lavish or extravagant skill was the two-toned snake from earlier.

It only stared at her, undaunted but challenging, showing her dominance -- showing how she would not kneel to impress a speaker, but would instead stand strong and meet them head on. Maybe it was this quality, maybe the heady look in the serpents eye, maybe it’s undaunted spirit and venomous eyes  _ (demonic, abnormal),  _ or maybe all of these qualities that prompted Ianthe to approach the lone snake, ignoring the prickling stares of the others, _ “Greetingssss,” _ the snake said, tongue sliding out to meet the air as it spoke from the other side of the glass, eyes a demonic green -- much like the eyes of the girl on the other side of the glass.  _ “You have the ssssscent.”  _

_ “The sssssscent of home. Your blood sssssingssss, your magic ssssingsss; it isss...delicioussss.”  _ the snake admitted, moving closer to the glass to raise its head to the girl. Ianthe felt enchanted, felt encompassed by this beauty of a snake. She wondered if this was what Nagini must feel for her Master, this connection born of nothing but a shared language and magic.

_ “Your home? Where do you hail from? _ ” Ianthe asked, sibilant hisses slipping and sliding easily.  _ “India,” _ the snake replied easily, rubbing her head against her coils, “ _ The land of kingssss and queenssss, maharaja’ssss and rani’sss, of gold and power;”  _ it hissed,  _ “Your blood is home, too, to all of thossssse, to me. The blood is refresssshing, for two of the sssssame home -- the sssssame land, the ssssssame ssssssoil, revitalize each other.”  _

" _ I had been hunting, been hunting for my darlingssss, for my hatchlingsss,”  _ it hissed mournfully, tearfully --  _ not my baby girl!  _ \-- “ _ They caught my mate first. He tried to attack them and they killed him, with their mage wandssss and that flash of green light. I tried to fight back, for my babiessss, for my hatchling,”  _ a low mournful hiss -- a searing pain, a high cold laugh, a pleading scream and a flash of green light  _ “but they took me, and from that moment, I knew I would never ssssee my hatchlingsssss again. But now,” _ she looked straight at the girl, _ “The blood flowsss, the blood of a rani, and I will not let this chance esssscape! Take me, sssspeaker!”  _ she demanded, “ _ Take me, and together, we will revitalize each other! I know of you, hatchling.”  _ sibilant hisses from the others, warnings,  _ “You, who were taken from the armssss of mother and father, of the king and queen, of the maharaj and rani, too early. You who defeated the last of the native sssspeakersss; we have both losssst, sssso we will become each other’s family, yessss?”  _

Ianthe looked at the serpent who had lost so much, who had lost her family to a faceless and nameless killer,  _ “What isss your title?”  _

The snake hissed once again,  _ “Aathmika.” _

* * *

“Sir,” Ianthe stood at the counter with a highly venomous and deadly snake wrapped around her neck and seeming as if she was on holiday, “I’d like to purchase this snake, if that’s all right.”

He leant forward and said very seriously, “I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” before fainting on top of the counter.

* * *

When she emerged from the shop, Mika ( _ Aathmika isss ssssimply too long,  _ she had hissed, _ call me Mika) _ secured around her neck and hissing observation like  _ “The sssskinny one sssshould be fed more.”  _ and “ _ I will bite anyone who triessss to hurt you, Mistresssss. Promisssse.”  _ with Ianthe carrying the shrunken pet necessities in her pocket  _ (one tap of the wand, kid. And keep an eye on that one will you? Dumbledore’s gonna have a field day, trying to keep all the kiddies safe from a massive ass snake, huh?)  _ Quirrell simply looked bored when he spotted the snake wrapped around her shoulders, but he did sigh. 

“Potter, Potter, Potter,” he muttered, “Surely you must realise that you need to gain permission from our  _ esteemed  _ Headmaster to allow that into the school?” 

Ianthe didn’t look up from looking at the window displays, but did muse aloud, “If someone hates the Headmaster as I think they do, I wonder what lengths they would take to plague his mind with worry about a fairly large snake in the castle?” 

On one hand, it was tempting, Quirrell thought, to add even a midget more of worry to Dumbledore’s life by providing access to the castle with a snake (excluding the basilisk), but on the other hand, he’d be aiding the girl destined to kill him, wouldn’t he? 

It was simply too easy: “I’ll see what I can do, Potter.” 

Ianthe grinned and happily swung her arms about as Mika swung her tail about and hissed in delight to her Mistress’ delight; “ _ Deliciousssss,” _ the serpent said, peaking the Dark Lord’s interest, “ _ Mistresses magic is sssssimply delicioussss.”  _

_ Delicious? Such an odd choice of word, _ he thought as they turned another corner, the odd word choice put on a back burner for later. 

* * *

In the end, Quirrell forced Ianthe to put Mika in her portable snake enclosure  _ (But why?! She’s perfectly harmless! -- In case you haven’t noticed Potter, your snake’s scaring half of Diagon Alley! Now be reasonable and put her in there!)  _ and they got two pewter cauldrons _ (In case one melts Potter, do catch up.)  _ and a slightly more pricey version for the standard scales needed for weighing potions ingredients  _ (higher quality means longer durability, Potter.)  _ as well as a collapsible brass telescope  _ (how about that one? -- too many lenses. -- that one? -- too little lenses. -- this one? -- too gryffindor. -- and that one? -- too gaudy. My, you have terrible taste in design, Potter…)  _ but he wouldn’t let Ianthe buy a gold cauldron, for whatever reason  _ (you said higher quality means longer durability! -- that’s different from excessive and unneeded spending, you’ll turn into a malfoy! -- …are they really all that snooty, Professor? -- ...it goes back generations, if you must know.) _

At the apothecary, while Professor Quirrell asked the man behind the counter for a supply of a basic potions kit  _ (i’ll add another one, shall i? the youngin’s gonna be exhausted by the end of the first potions lesson, ‘ccording to my niece.), _ Ianthe examined some silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each, golden thunderbird claws at sixty-seven Galleons and glittery, black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop) and at the trunk shop, Quirrell had seemed particularly vexed  _ (just choose one! – but there all so useful! ooh, how about a family crest one – hekate!) _

They had finished all their shopping with one last thing -- a wand. “Ollivanders,” Quirrell intoned, leading the way, “Is Britain’s major wand supplier. The best of wands come from there, but you will find independent establishments that are just as worthwhile if less well-known. Do not rule out the seedier establishments either, if you want a deadly and more customised wand.” 

They stopped outside a narrow and shabby looking shop, the front window covered to the ceiling in dust and a single wand lay on a purple cushion. The sign, written in peeling gold, read _ Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. _

As they stepped inside, a bell tinkled lightly. It was a tiny place, cramped and squashed but filled to the brim with rows upon rows of thin boxes, lined in a seemingly hazardous favour; Ianthe felt strangely as if she had entered a very strict library -- or a cathedral. A cathedral filled to the brim with holy pictures and sacred relics that seemed to judge you at every turn; how terrifying.

Ianthe had to swallow down a lot of new questions, feeling as if the very shelves, as if the very dust and silence hummed with some type of secret magic. She chanced a glance back at Professor Quirrell; he had taken a seat on the spindly chair, a distasteful expression on his face as it squeaked loudly, Mika hissing beside him in her snake tank, the man glaring as Ianthe grinned at him. 

“Good morning,” said a soft, whispery voice. Ianthe jumped at that, Quirrell not so much. In fact, the man only smiled easily, leaning backwards and folding his arms over each other. 

A man stood opposite her, not particularly tall but neither particularly short -- in other words, average; but, there was a large but, he  _ looked  _ \-- he  _ felt  _ anything but. He had wide pale eyes, like two luminescent moons in the gloom of the shop -- those eyes; they were familiar, for she too had those to unnerving, too all-knowing eyes as the man opposite her. He looked at her intently, curiously, wondrously, as if he wished to see into her very soul. 

“Hello,” Ianthe said awkwardly, feeling oddly exposed under his blank gaze. 

“Ah yes,” said the silver-eyed man, “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Ianthe Lily Potter.” It wasn’t a question. He stared and stared, as if waiting for something extraordinary to happen. “The Girl-Who-Lived...”  _ The Girl-Who-Lived? _ “The last child of The Potter’s family…and, the girl to be marked and marked and  _ marked _ , until…” he swallowed, “your final comeuppance passes.”

Quirrell leaned forward, eyes burning.  _ Her comeuppance?  _

Mr. Ollivander leant forward, eyes penetrating, “You have your mother’s eye, yes, it is not like I could forget those eyes,” he muttered mirthfully, “It seemed only like yesterday that she was in here herself with young Severus by her side,”  _ Sev! _ “buying their first wands. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow for your mother. Nice wand for charm work.” 

Mr Ollivander stared back at her as Ianthe maintained eye contact, knowing that  _ this  _ \-- this luminescent silver against demonic green was important, was  _ vital _ . “Your father on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Meant for the best of mischief, and I do believe that your father favoured it -- it’s really the wand that chooses the wix, of course.” 

His eye trailed to Ianthe’s collar, a lone finger coming to press against the fabric, directly where it zagged upwards, “And there…” he said softly, “is where the mark lays -- it has evolved, changed -- how terrible. I’m sorry to say that it was  _ I  _ who sold the wand that did It.” he said mournfully, “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…Lady Hekate has a funny way of showing her love.” 

He shook his head, and just like that, the moment was broken, and to Ianthe’s relief, he spotted Professor Quirrell, “Quirinus! Quirinus Quirrell! How nice to see you again… you seem different however, maybe we need to get your wand adjusted? Alder, nine inches -- springy, as I recall. Curious, that one. I hear Albus has convinced you to take the Defense position. How was your sabbatical, by the way?” 

Quirrell twitched, “I-i-it w-was…” he paused,  _ “e-e-enlightening.”  _

Ollivander sent a piercing look at the purple-robed man, “It would be, wouldn’t it?” but Ianthe wondered why he had resorted back to the stuttering, for he never even bothered in her presence. 

“Now Miss Potter,” he pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket, “Which is your wand arm?”

“Oh -- well I’m right-handed.” 

He nodded, “Hold out your arm. That’s it.” he came closer and started to measure -- from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head, like a crown. As he measured he spoke, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of powerful magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn horns, phoenix feathers and the heartstrings of dragons.” he tapped her elbow joint before bringing up her fingers and flexing them intently, “No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you’ll never get such good results with another wix’s wand.” 

At some point, he had moved off and the measuring tape had moved around at its own accord. Mr Ollivander now flitted about near the shelves, like a moth, pulling multiple boxes down.

“That will do,” he said, placing a stack of boxes on narrow boxes on the counter, and then tapping the tape measure, allowing it to crumple gracefully to the floor. “Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Go on, just give it a wave.”

Ianthe took the wand and, feeling Quirrell’s very palpable amusement, gave it a mighty wave like she was brandishing a sword. Ollivander snatched the wand almost at once, “Certainly not.” he muttered, “Poor thing. Miss Potter,” he reprimanded, “Please do not swing my wands as if they were swords, you’ll have terrible wandform otherwise.” 

“But here, try this. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try--” Ianthe had barely given it a flick before Mr. Ollivander snatched it away once more. 

“No, no -- here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Ianthe tried and tried and  _ tried _ . She either felt repulsed by the touch, felt mildly queasy with the result or felt nothing at all. The pile of wands climbed higher and higher, nearly toppling off the counter. The more Ianthe tried, the more excited Mr Ollivander seemed to get, pulling box after box at record speed. 

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere -- I wonder, now -- yes, why not -- unusual combination -- holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Go on,” he urged. 

Ianthe took hold of the wand, and almost at once, she felt tingling warmth extending from her fingertips to the tips of her toes, and yet, whilst it felt right, it didn’t feel  _ enough _ . Soon, the tingling warmth turned to a scalding, burning heat. The wand quite literally caught on fire, in her hands, burning and burning. 

_ “Aguamenti!”  _

A sudden burst of clear, cold water poured onto Ianthe’s hands, prominent burn marks still evident despite the water. On the floor, surrounded by ash and charred wood, lay a single red and orange feather that seemed to simply  _ shine _ , already dry from the water. 

“Oh,” Ollivander said at last.

“Oh, indeed, Ollivander!” scathed Professor Quirrell, “Come here, Potter,” he barked, pulling her hands to himself and flicking his wand, the burns turning cool and slowly disappearing. Ianthe pulled her hands free, marvelling at the smooth skin, before bending down to pick up the softly glowing feather that seemed to calm in her hands, returning to its red and orange hue. 

_ (why did you heal her?) _

Professor Quirrell glared furiously at the elderly man, “What was that? Tell us!” he demanded. Mr Ollivander only glanced back before taking the feather from Ianthe’s now-healed hands. “It seems Miss Potter,” he said, gently stroking the feather, “that the core simply desired you far too much. It was due to that intent that the wood burned up.”

“It also means that the wood is  _ still  _ very compatible with both yourself and the core, the phoenix feather was simply too eager, I’m afraid. The wood bursting into flames is very auspicious though, it symbolises a prosperous and strong relationship with your wand,” he sniffed, sending a pointed glance at Quirrell who refused to stop glaring. 

He handed the feather back to Ianthe. “Come Miss Potter, it seems that we must convene to my workshop. We’ll have to test some different wand woods, maybe combinations? Yes…” he flicked his wand and opened the latch, disappearing between the shelves as Ianthe stayed behind.

She turned to Professor Quirrel, “Are you not joining Professor?” 

He looked at her calculatingly, “Certainly not, Potter. It is bad character to know someone else's wand details if they have not explicitly told you. And besides,” he said, “it is more probable than not that Ollivander has something he wishes to tell you.”

“How do you know?”

“Why, do you think you are the only one whose visited that workshop of his?”  _ arsenic eyes in your dreams and a wand of yew? my, you're very interesting, Mr. Riddle. _ “Now hurry along, he’ll be waiting.”

* * *

From behind many shelves of narrow boxes, Ianthe could just make out the silver wispy strands of Ollivander’s hair. The boxes had golden lettering on the sides, twisting and turning and weaving; 

As she neared the back, she happened upon many wood shavings on the floor, a cork board covered in newspaper cuttings. Cuttings of a man, strikingly similar to Mr Ollivander, smiling at the camera with an arm wrapped around a small boy  _ (Lord Gervaise Ollivander presents Heir Garrick Ollivander and Plans to Commence His Wandlore Training)  _ another image of a teenage boy, with silver eyes and pale hair -- with a joyous smile, most of all -- as he held a young woman close with the girl pressing a kiss to his cheek before grinning at the camera  _ (the same soft smile, the same tender look in their eye)  _ and another newspaper cutting with a shot of the front of the shop, the gold lettering still peeling but somewhat intact  _ (Ollivanders Faces Ridicule For Introduction of Phoenix Feather, Unicorn Hair and Dragon Heartstring Wandcores).  _ A red string connected that to another cutting, this one with Mr Ollivander, older and looking to be in his early thirties, and another man, this one with a square sort of face and bushy beard scowled out the paper before slamming his shop door  _ (Ollivanders Proves Superior! What of Gregorovitch?)  _

Her eye drew to another section, the square-jawed man grinning at the camera as he showcased a wand to the camera  _ (Gregorovitch Boasts Of An Incomparable Wand; Seeks to Replicate the Effect)  _ this one connected by a purple line to a piece of parchment,  _ (The Elder Wand: Folklore or Fact?) _ that one to another  _ (The Deathstick: Did It Really Belong To Death?)  _ and to another  _ (Gregorovitch Break In!)  _ before it stretched to a final one  _ (The Tale of the Three Brothers -- Was It All True? Grindelwald Seems To Believe So!)  _ but then, there was another, a small cutting but connected nonetheless  _ (The Deathly Hallows and Foe Marks: A Conspiracy or Not?) _

“Miss Potter?” Mr Ollivander called from a shelf away, coming to her side, “I see you’ve found my board.” 

“Board?” 

“I’ve recorded all of my personal accomplishments, it is something of an Ollivander tradition; and then, of course, some personal research,” his eyes lingered on the mention of the Elder Wand and The Deathly Hallows.

“What is the Elder Wand? And these Deathly Hallows or -- or the Foe Marks?” 

“Ah, I’m surprised you don’t know the story; most know the story as a child’s bedtime story, but the Potter’s hold it quite close.” He led her to a wooden chair, continuing as she sat down, “The Deathly Hallows originates from a child’s bedtime story, The Tale of the Three Brothers. As the story goes, three brothers, thought to be based off of the Peverell brothers, travelled down a winding and twisting road at twilight. They happened upon a fast flowing river that took many under, but being as they were wizards, they simply conjured a bridge for the lot of them with their wands,” he smiled at Ianthe’s captivated expression, reminiscing of another child that had been captivated by this tale, long ago. “Halfway across, they met the enraged spirit of Death. Many had fallen to their peril at the river, and he was enraged at being cheated out of his due. Instead, he cunningly congratulated them on outsmarting him and offered to award them gifts of their own choosing,” he said, lining up a variety of different wand woods. 

“The eldest brother, a combative man and excellent dueller, asked for a wand that was more powerful than any other in existence. Death granted his wish by fashioning a wand, dubbed the Elder Wand, from the branch of a nearby elder tree standing on the banks of the river. 

The second brother, an arrogant and entitled man, wished to humiliate Death even further. He asked for the power to recall the deceased from the depths of the grave; Death, acquiescing, granted his wish by picking a stone from the river bank and gifting it to him, this became the Resurrection Stone. ” Mr Ollivander said, brushing up the wood shavings still on the table. 

“The last brother, the youngest and the wisest and most humble, did not trust Death and wished to travel forth without having to worry about Death on his tail. Death, most unwilling and reluctant, handed over part of his own invisibility cloak; it was thought to never wear and tear and was thus dubbed The Cloak of Invisibility.”

“How creative,” Ianthe muttered, earning a soft glance from Ollivander, “Yes,” he said, “Quite creative, in fact.”

“But, there was more. The three brothers soon took hold of their prizes and parted ways, as family is prone to do.” he said with a tinged voice, adjusting an instrument on his work table, “The eldest brother travelled to nearby village where a wizard with whom he quarrelled lived. He sought a duel and fought using his new wand and won, leaving the dead wizard's body upon the floor, the dead man’s family weeping at their loss. 

Emboldened by his success, and taken by his conscience and lust of the Elder Wand’s power, he travelled to an inn not far from the duelling site, and taken by the wine on his tongue, boasted of the wand gifted by Death and his own invincibility. That very night, Death turned to a fellow wizard and told him of the Elder Wand’s magical prowess. The man, determined to gain ownership of the wand, decided that he would steal from the eldest brother to gain the Elder Wand. Stealing into the inn, the murderous wizard watched as the eldest brother slept, drunk from the wine, and stole the wand, slitting the wizard's throat for good measure. And so, Death took the first brother. 

The second brother returned to his home where he lived alone. Turning the stone thrice in his palm, he summoned the spirit of the girl he had wished to marry before her untimely death. She appeared, much to his delight, but was sad and distant, so unlike the girl he had fallen in love with for her vivacious spirit and love for life. Though she had returned, she did not truly belong; she was separated by a veil, the divide between the living and the dead. She suffered, and so, the second brother -- driven by hopeless longing for his love -- committed suicide by hanging himself from the balcony of his house so as to truly join her. That was the moment Death took the second brother into his kingdom.

As for the final brother, Death continued to look for him for many years, but he never caught sight of him. It was only when the final brother had reached a great age; he took off the Cloak of Invisibility and passed it to his son. Greeting Death as an old friend, greeting him  _ warmly _ , they departed this life as equals, as friends.” Ollivander finished, turning to the girl.

“The Elder Wand is revered by wandmakers all over the world, and you will find many who believe in its existence, including myself. Not many have claimed to have it, but those who have, have shortly after declaring it met a gruesome and violent demise. Many seek it, but most do not realise it is an omen of death and its owners often meet a bloody end -- it is because of this that it has also claimed the title of Deathstick. 

The Stone of Resurrection has been heralded as a silly tale, something to add sorrow and tragedy to the story, as it even beyond the lengths of Lady Hekate and her gift to bring people back from the dead. The Cloak of Invisibility is believed impossible as invisibility cloaks are made of Demiguise hair, but after a time, they begin to wear and tear and lose their potency. The story is just that, a story,” he turned around to collect some more woods, betraying his interest, “but interesting nonetheless.”

“Now,” he said sternly, “down to business, Miss Potter. I would like you to stand here,” Ianthe stood and walked over to where he stood, “And tell me which one feels the most eager to bond with you; it is different for everyone, so do not worry if they do not feel  _ secure  _ at first.”

Ianthe inched closer to the table, reaching out to feel that familiar warmth; she picked up the first, and while it tingled, it did not feel like  _ home (like Miss Nirmala and the warm feeling she had when she looked at the photograph of Sev and Mum, like that blossoming feeling when she and Dudley had bonded over the letter -- over  _ **_magic_ ** _.) _ . The second repulsed her, causing her to put it harshly on the table, disoriented by touch of the wood -- Elm, was what it had been. She continued on for some time, happening upon Holly -- the wood that had burned up. She still felt the warmth, dulled -- true -- without the phoenix feather, but it still carried that familiar warmth but she  _ felt  _ \-- she  _ knew _ , that for her wand, she required something else.

Holding it close to her chest, she felt out for the next wood her wand would need. Penetrating eyes zeroed on a single wood at the end of the line Mr Ollivander had spread out. The wood, a pale white and fine, seemed to stick out from the others, warmed in her hand, practically vibrating once she had joined all three of them -- the phoenix feather, the white wood and the holly -- together. 

She brought them in front of Mr Ollivander who had turned pale, “Elder,” he muttered, “Holly and phoenix feather; the brother, the brother and the material usurper and the spiritual protector. How curious, how positively, unimaginably curious!” 

“Sorry, but  _ what’s  _ curious?” Ianthe asked, only at once to be met with a pale-eyed stare. 

“Miss Potter, I remember every single wand I've ever sold. Every single one. It just so happens, that the phoenix tail feather that rests in your wand -- why, it gave only one other feather. Just one, to the man who gave you your mark, your scar.”  _ My scar? _ “It is curious you should be destined for this wand when, why, when it’s brother gave you that scar; Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. The wand chooses the wix, and yet, it is curious how these things work. He -Who - Must - Not - Be -Named did great things -- terrible, but great nonetheless; Brother Wands, such a tricky thing,” he murmured. 

“And the elder wood, such a tenacious wood. The Elder Wand is, of course, infamous, but to gift an elder wood is equally trying -- it is gifted to those of special destiny,” he looked pointedly at her, “but it is also known as a material usurper, for many would kill --  _ have  _ killed-- for the first wand of elder, for the Elder Wand; but what makes it so curious is not only that, but the fact that is has been paired with holly. Holly wood is seen as a spiritual protector, as many who have been paired with it have completed great quests -- but to be paired with a phoenix feather when they repel each other so forcefully and elder, of which it has a hard time connecting with -- for material and spiritual, they are at opposite end of the spectrum, after all, it is hard to believe they would ever bond together. And then, there is the issue of soul marks.”

“What do soul marks have to do with it?” Ianthe nibbled her lip, hoping, wishing, for some reassurance, for something normal. 

“Wands have a close connection with soul marks. They are both similar in many ways, both vital to the parts that make wix  _ wix _ . When soulmates find each other, their wands will -- almost at once -- bond with each other. They can still turn against each other, but that would require a lot of magical force. Though many do not believe in this, you will find soulmate marks who oppose each other. It goes against any recorded mention, of course,” he placed the phoenix feather and wand woods on the work table, “it is not in any public record, but the few who do believe, wand makers and those who study soulmate magick call them Foe Marks. You have your usual marks, the romantic, the platonic, and the rest -- but these marks,” his knife that had been carving away as he spoke, stilled, a soft glow emanate from the elder as the carving knife worked its magic, “They are marks of mortal peril.”

He swallowed, carving and carving and  _ carving _ , entwining the holly  _ (spiritual protector -- burn and  _ **_burn_ ** _ \-- protect her, Lady Hekate?) _ with the elder  _ (material usurper -- deeply unlucky and death in its wake -- Avada Kedavra!),  _ gently grabbing hold of the phoenix feather  _ (brother and brother -- burning and protection and rebirth -- connection) _ , its eternal warmth strong, and using an odd silver instrument -- shaped a bit like an apple core remover -- he inserted the feather in, watching with bated breath as he watched them bonding together, “There are stories, tales and myths, passed from parent to child, from wandmaker to wandmaker, tales of old, that…that in the beginning, that -- that Lady Eris, a deity of Chaos but at great rivals with Lady Hekate, grew raged by the peace wix found by reuniting with their soulmates and cursed them with her mark -- with her Foe Marks. Not many believe, even more deny,”

He pierced his eyes intently at the young girl, “Not many hold wandlore important, and not many care to understand soulmate magick, Miss Potter, but your wand... I believe you will accomplish great things Miss Potter, for better or worse, you  _ will  _ make change -- it is all written in the wood,” he held out the carefully bonded wood, urging her to take it, “it is written in the very depths of your soul.”

Ianthe took hold of the wand, feeling a warmth run from her toes to her fingertips, she caressed the wood, swishing it through the dusty air as a great stream of red and gold sparks shot through the end like a firework, lighting the workshop up like a rocket, quickly morphing into a shape -- an animal? 

Legs sprouted, elegant as the sparks rose up, extending up into a pair of large red and gold wings, burning in their glory as a silhouette of a feathered head could be made out before a single soulful, mournful, cry filled the workshop before dispersing in a flurry of sparks.

_ (burning, burning, but finally rising.) _

“Exquisite,” Mr Ollivander breathed, Ianthe grinned, revelling in the breathless feeling she had gotten, pulling the wand close and cradling it to her heart. She turned to him, a delighted smile lighting up her features, and still spurred on by the phoenix song -- by that wonderful, breathless feeling that had filled her up and refused to leave her, she rushed forward and hugged him -- barely five seconds long -- yet it was a hug nonetheless. 

A clear ringing sound behind them sounded as Ianthe let go, the breath returning to her as she cradled her wand close, unseeing to the way Mr Ollivander gently touched his stomach a wistful type of smile on his face. But separate from this, Ianthe felt as if hours had passed by, and yet, when she passed her way back past the board, past the stacked shelves and the littered wood curls on the floor, once she passed her way to the front desk, passed that warm hum and took her first step, it seemed as it had only just struck half noon. 

Instead of Professor Quirrel as she expected, instead stood Hagrid, Mika hissing and wrapped around his rather large arm, the giant man only grinning in delight. “Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid, how nice to --  _ By Merlin, put that snake away!” _ Mr Ollivander practically spat out, hurrying to behind his counter and climbing onto a stool, a blind sort of panic on his face. Hagrid stopped grinning, “Er, of course, sir.” he lowered his hand and settled Mika in her cage, giving an apologetic look to the snake who only hissed  _ “Sssstupid humanssss…How sssssily to think I would harm an elder one.” _ before curling up on herself, feeding on the dead mouse Professor Quirrell had most probably left for her.

With Mika safely in her cage, Mr Ollivander warily got down from the stool and came round, clearing his throat awkwardly; Ianthe got the feeling that he didn’t usually let his customers see anything beyond his creepy blank-eyed stare, but then that begged the question of why he had entertained her by telling her the Tale of the Three Brothers and Foe Marks, even if one was a child’s story and the other a conspiracy. 

She touched the fabric concealing her own soulmark, she smiled slightly, romantic, platonic or other, she’s sure she and soulmate would be fine. After all, even Ollivander said it was a myth, an old tale passed down from person to person. There was no way, and so she put the notion to the back of her mind. 

“...but you don’t  _ use  _ it, do you?” 

“Oh no, sir,” Hagrid said, shuffling his feet as an innocent smile gripped his features. Ianthe noticed his umbrella a tad too tightly. 

“Hmm.” Mr Ollivander hummed, he turned to Ianthe, “Your wand, please, Miss Potter.” Ianthe took a step back, clutching her wand tightly. Ollivander zeroed in on her tight hold, “Such a tight bond already…” his eyes softened, recalling his own bond with his wand, “Don’t worry Miss Potter, I wish only to put your wand in an appropriate box; delicate, as they are.”

He tenderly took the wand, enclosing it in a narrow box with a purple velvet cushion before covering it with the lid, the gentle humming it radiated put at rest. “The total amount for your wand is seventeen Galleons, Miss Potter, but I would recommend purchasing a wand holster at your earliest convenience. They are especially helpful; if you have any queries, just owl Ollivanders.”

Ianthe placed the required amount of Galleons on the counter, and a beat passed when she asked tentatively, Hagrid watching their interaction with a soft smile, “And if I simply wish to talk to you, as a potential friend?” Another beat passed in which Ollivander stared even more blank-eyed than he usually was, “That would be --” he swallowed, a gentle and slow smile lighting his face, “That would be delightful; more than, actually.”

“Then await my owl, Mr Ollivander!” 

_ (i’ll send an owl as soon as i can, baba!)  _

* * *

The midday sun hung low, the rush now more lazy as more people headed home to escape the settling heat. Though Ianthe had her shrunken clothes, many packages that she had acquired through the trip had to be boxed away in bags as they simply couldn’t be shrunk. 

After Mr Ollivander had bowed them out the shop, a spectacle that had left Ianthe embarrassed and Mika amused, judging by her hisses of  _ “Yessss, bow to the Rani,” _ , Hagrid led her down the alley, down to Eeylops Owl Emporium, opening the door for her as the both of them walked in, met by an onslaught of screeching and cawing owls. 

“What are we here for?” Ianthe had asked, eyes reaching straight for a beady-eyed snowy owl that looked at her from high above. Hagrid turned to her, “Yer birthday present, ‘course! Yeh’ll need yer own owl if yer gonna be owling Mister Ollivander, aren’t ya?” Ianthe reddened, a quick protest ready to rise, “You don’t have to --”

Hagrid shushed her, winking, “Nah, let me. Bee’ wonderin’ what to get yer for yer birthday anyway; don’ reckon yer gotta a lot of presents from those Dursley’s anyway, maybe from yer cousin -- what was ‘is name? Dugley? Duggy?” 

" Dudley,” Ianthe supplied, “And anyway, that’s a recent development. He’s only been better after the arrival of the letter, I reckon after the excitement about magic has been flushed out of his system he’ll be back to his old ways,”

Hagrid side-eyed her, “Muggles and magic don’ always mix Ianthe,” he said, “Magic and  _ different  _ don’t mix, mos’ o’ the time, bu’ there are exceptions. Remember tha’,” he nudged her side, grinning down at her, “Now come on, pick one o’ these beauties Jus’ look at tha’ one…” 

Twenty minutes later, Ianthe emerged with Mika in one arm -- safely enclosed in her cage -- and the amber-eyed snowy owl from earlier, who had been staring down at her. It seemed as if she had a thing for beautiful but deadly. Mika and the snowy owl -- she’d have to look up a name later -- seemed to be trying to maim each other with their eyes, but Ianthe hoped that they wouldn’t pester each other – she also hoped the Dursley’s wouldn’t kill Ianthe for bringing back both a deadly and venomous magical breed of snake and a highly sassy owl.

One could hope, after all.

They made their way passed the apothecary, and pulling down Ianthe through an airy alley, they emerged in an equally bustling place. While most had escaped Diagon Alley, they now grouped here, “Crescent Lane,” Hagrid said, pulling her across and down the lane, “the perfe't place fo’ a spo’ o’ lunch. I’mma knackered; heard you ‘ad some ice cream wit’ Prof’ssor Quirrell, but you’ll need somethin’ more fillin’.”

They came to a stop outside a café  _ (Cecilia’s Creature Café) _ covered in all manners of magical beasts, a crimson red dragon stood guard on the wall, and occasionally blowing puffs of smoke as it waved its tail. Hagrid stepped in, Ianthe trailing behind him as her breath caught in her throat. The place seemed bigger on the inside for one thing, expanding further and further, boasting leather booths and tables with painted clawed legs and posters of dragons to what seemed a white type of ape crossbreed between a sloth, huge brown eyes blinking and turning blue then disappearing before reappearing. At the bottom of the poster, in neat gold lettering, lay the words  _ Demiguise -- peaceful herbivores that can tell the future and turn invisible -- Magical Classification: XXXX _

As they waited in line, Ianthe noticed that it seemed a slow day, a quiet sort of hum that made it seem as if it was a lazy day. A girl with bright bubble pink hair entered, eyes glittering as she exclaimed, “Hagrid!”

She rushed forward, tripping on the way and falling on the floor, bumping into another employee and spilling the drinks they’d been carrying on the pink-haired girl’s shirt. The older woman, whose drinks had been spilt, sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, “Again, Dora…?”

The girl, Dora, sheepishly smiled and pulled herself up. She picked up her wand, slender with a diamond tipped base, and glued her eyes shut in concentration, the spill cleaning off. She opened her eyes and let out a whoop, glancing at the pinch-lipped older woman, “See Liv, no harm no foul!” ‘Liv’ harrumphed, snatching the wand from ‘Dora’s’ hand, ignoring her cry of alarm, “No harm, no foul, indeed! You’ll tell that to the customers who have to wait another half hour -- and to your mother!” Dora released a whine reminiscent of a dying goat “Honestly, when will you learn to slow down?” she tutted, disappearing behind a beaded curtain. 

Dora looked her go with quite a funny expression, something between dread and horror, her hair suddenly turning a yellow-green. She sighed before turning to Hagrid and Ianthe, hands taking place on her waist, “Wotcher Hagrid, how ya doin’?” 

Hagrid grinned, “Righ’ as rain, Tonks. ‘ow ‘bout you?” Tonks grinned, hair turning bright blue, “Maybe not as right as rain but best as can be in  _ customer service.”  _ she pouted, turning back to Hagrid, “Mum’s still tryna convince me to get an office job, pshh. Like a summer café job is gonna change my mind and -- Oi! Hold on, who's your friend Hagrid?” 

Ianthe pushed her way forward, Hedwig on her cage and secure while Mika hissed her aversion to being caged; "I'm on a first year escort trip, Tonks." Hagrid cheerily said, nudging Ianthe forward. "We're jus' poppin' in fer a bi' o' lunch."

Ianthe watched green eyes as Tonks -- or was it Dora? -- extended her hand, "Wotcher, kid! My name's Tonks -- Nymphadora Tonks. Only, I'd prefer if you call me Tonks -- Dora is fine too, but none of that Nymphadora business." She wrinkled her nose, her hair turning a putrid green as Ianthe watched fascinated, "Your hair…"

“Right you are,” her hair turned back to a curly bubble-gum pink as she led Hagrid and Ianthe to a booth, the one next to the ape-like Demiguise, “I’m a metamorphmagus. It means that I can change my physical appearance at will,” she squeezed her eyes shut and in a flurry, she sported a duck’s beak, sending Ianthe into a giggles as well as a pair of younger kids who appeared to be eating with their parents. 

Tonks grinned, reverting her nose back to normal; Ianthe grinned up at her and decided that she quite liked Tonks, “How do you do it, Tonks?” Tonks winked, a cheery grin pulling at her face, “Born with it; not a lot of metamorphmagus in the world, really rare ability, but that shouldn’t take the fun out of it!” She changed her hair to women’s buzz cut, bubble-gum pink hair hanging on the left side of her face and covering her eye. 

As Hagrid manoeuvred himself into the booth, the Demiguise watched with blinking eyes, “So, how was your trip with Hagrid been today?” 

“Hmm? Oh, no, Tonks. Hagrid just came to pick me up from Ollivanders, I spent most of the time shopping with Professor Quirrell.” Tonks blinked, hair flashing orange, “The Muggle Studies Professor? Odd, I’d thought McGonagall or Sprout would be more likely to take a muggle born student, seeing as their Heads of Houses. Say, if you were with him, is the rumour true? ‘bout him being the new DADA Professor?”

Ianthe nodded, a twist of the lips pulling, “Yep. I don’t think he’ll be too bad, if you can get past the occasional stuttering,”  _ never any stuttering with her though. why? _ “and the barbs. He’s the one who let me keep Mika,” she gestured to the moody snake, “and Hagrid got me her,” she gestured to the snowy owl, who sent her a piercing glare at being referred to as  _ her _ . 

“Blimey,” Tonks said, “I’ll have to take your word for it. Let’s see if he’s any good, wonder what assignments I'll have?” she mused, hair turning a steamy blue. Ianthe however, was surprised, for though Tonks had a youthful appearance, she looked as if she’s already passed the age of schooling. “Hold on, you’re still in Hogwarts?” 

Tonks grinned, “Sure. Don’t know how you do it in the muggle world, but in Hogwarts there are seven years; start at eleven and end at seventeen. I’m going to be starting my seventh year, and after that, I’ll be heading to the Aurors, no matter what mum says!” Tonks said brightly, “I expect I’ll see you at the sorting, huh?”

Ianthe smiled as she set down both Mika and Hedwig's cage. She sidled in opposite Hagrid as Tonks collected Hagrid’s order that he had picked while they were chatting, “And you?” Tonks asked an easy grin on her face. Ianthe had mulled over the decision but decided on a serving of Bangers and Mash. Tonks smiled, “Right you are -- hold on!” her hair popped yellow, like popcorn, “I didn’t get your name, kiddo!”

Ianthe replied, “Ianthe. Ianthe Potter.” Though her name brought hordes of shaking hands, hushed whispers and penetrating stares, she wouldn’t shed the connection to her family for anything. Tonks, quite funnily, popped her mouth open in an  _ ‘o’  _ as her hair lengthened, turning into a jungle and turned a mixture bright yellow and pink, her cheeks flushing in surprise. 

“Sure know how to throw a surprise, don't you, Ianthe?” Tonks said weakly, hair turning to a mousy brown -- her natural hair colour, Ianthe assumed. Tonks smiled, “I’ll be back in a mo’, Hagrid,” she nodded to the giant man, “Ianthe,” she smiled as she walked past, ruffling Ianthe’s hair like something -- like something Ianthe imagined a big sister would do.

While Hagrid and Ianthe chatted, Ianthe zoning out as Hagrid went onto a tirade about something called a  _ flobberworm _ , Ianthe wondered about her scar and who  _ He - Who - Must - Not - Be - Named  _ was, the man that Mr Ollivander said did terrible things -- _ terrible, but great nonetheless;,  _ he had said. 

“...an’ a terribly kin’ thin’ yer did wit’ ol’ Ollivander.” Ianthe drew her attention back to Hagrid, “Don’ reckon he gets ou’ much, always cooped up in ‘is sho’; like yer mother, too. Always tryna help people, whether they were hurt with bumps and bruises or eve’n feelin’ lonely and an’ outcast. ‘Ow’s yer wand by the wa’?”

“Brilliant,” Ianthe breathed, remembering that warm feeling that she had felt course through her, “But there was something that Mr Ollivander said that I've been wondering about, Hagrid.” she said, just as a waitress -- not Tonks, how disappointing -- came and set down Hagrid’s dish, a large bowl of some sort of chicken broth and Ianthe’s bangers and mash. “Wha’s tha’ then?” he asked, taking a sip of his broth. “Mr Ollivander, you, Draco,”  _ Draco? _ Hagrid quietly muttered, “You all talked about something I did. And Kalypso said Draco was boasting about meeting me. And Mr Ollivander…” Hagrid brought the spoon up to his lip, tipping the liquid down,” he mentioned someone --  _ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. _ ” Hagrid spluttered on his broth, “Who is he?”

Hagrid took a napkin, wiping the spilled broth, “Ianthe,” he said heavily, “It’s not somethin’ yer wanna talk abou’ o’ver lunch, I promise ya,” Ianthe stared, not backing down as Mika hissed, nudging the top of her enclosure, and by some miracle, was able to free it, slithering out and wrapping around Ianthe’s waist as the snowy owl watched, beady-eyed. 

“It’s…” Hagrid stilled, watching as the determined expression on the green-eyed girl's face changed from determination to something more, something steely that Lily had gotten when she had overheard both the Slytherins and Ravenclaws mocking Hagrid  _ (would you look at him, Tom, blustering oaf! i hear his mother was a giantess who ran off! no surprise there, barbarians, the lot of them! i mean, look at him! -- i heard he was expelled, wonder why dumbledore let him stay; better off without him, aren't we, penelope?) _ And the same look James had gotten when he spotted the snitch, exhilaration and adrenaline travelling through his veins  _ (did you see me, hagrid? i was brilliant, wasn't i? in your face, sirius -- oi, where's siri-- aargh, my hair!  _ **_sirius!)_ **

“There’s no stoppin’ you, is ther’?” he asked, a fond but wry grin lighting him up despite himself. Ianthe answered in turn “You’ll have to tell me sooner or later, but the answer is no; there is no stopping me, Hagrid.”

Hagrid sighed, “Right yer are, Ianthe.” he cast a glance at her plate, “I’d recommend’ eating’ up before I tell ya, min’,” he went back to eating his broth, and Ianthe went back to her gravy covered mash, feeding herself as Mika decided to travel down and start to roam, hissing at the snowy owl. Mika slithered past as Hagrid finished up, pushing his plate to side as Ianthe watched him with eager eyes. 

How quickly that would change.

Hagrid sighed heavily, averting his eyes from the demonic eyes, from the eyes of a dead woman that had spent afternoons with him in his hut with the hook nosed boy that was now a professor, from the eyes that he had watched alight with laughter with her husband, James. 

“Well,” he started, “I’ll tell yer as much as I ca’, but min’ -- I can’t tell yeh everythin’, ‘tsa grea’ myst’ry, par’s o’ it.” He clenched his hands, eyes furrowed concentration. “It begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it’s incredible yeh don’ know ‘is name, ev’ryone in our world knows.”

“Who?” Ianthe urged a kind look in her eye.  _ It must be difficult for him, _ Ianthe mused,  _ to talk about who this person was,  _ Ianthe supposed. 

“Well -- I don’ like sayin’ his name. No one does, in fac’. Ev’ryone avoids it, if they can. Ev’ryone  _ does  _ avoid it. Yeh’ll see no one sayin’ the name, ‘cept maybe Dumbledore.”

“Why?” Ianthe asked, an innocent wonder, and Hagrid, for the millionth time, wondered how he could tell this girl the story -- the story of her parents murder, the reason for her fame and worse, the name of who had killed them and how it would always haunt her? 

Hagrid clenched his palms again, staring back at the girl, "Guplin' gargoyles, Ianthe, people are still scared! Blimey, thi' is difficult..." Hagrid muttered under his breath, "Anway, there was a wix -- a wizard. He went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse than worse, he toppled any expectations of  _ bad.  _ Reckon I shoul' tell ya, his name…his name was…" 

Hagrid gulped, a tremulous look entering his now-haunted beetle eyes. Ianthe frowned, "Could you write it down?" Ianthe asked kindly, a frown marring her doll-like features. Hagrid huffed a breath, a disbelieving smile as he looked at the young girl, "Nah -- can' spell i'. All righ' -- 'ere goes, and on'ly once, all righ'?" 

Ianthe nodded, hands coming to rest on her seat as she leaned forward in anticipation; Hagrid looked at her once more, "'is name…'is name was  _ Voldemort _ ," Hagrid shuddered as Ianthe's heart dropped, down, down,  _ down _ . That was the name of her soulmate:  _ Voldemort.  _ "Don' make me say i' again, Ianthe. Anyway, this -- this wizard, abou' twenty years ago now, started to collec' followers."  _ It was supposed to be her and him. _ "Some were 'fraid an' some jus' wanted a bi' o' 'is power, 'cause 'e was gettin' power, all righ'."  _ he did great things -- terrible but great.  _ "Dark days, Ianthe. Didn' 'now who ter trus'; didn' dare an' get friendly with strange wix -- didn' dare an' get friendly with anyone yer didn't know already,  _ full stop _ , bu' then again, even the people yer already knew could be on the opposite side o' yers anyway."  _ two children, hands held tight with soft smiles and even softer hands. _

__ "Terrible thin's were happenin' all round; 'course they were," he scoffed, "'e was takin' over ev'rywhere. Some stood up to 'im," his eyes the misty in remembrance, "bu' 'e killed 'em. 'Orribly, too. One o' the on'ly safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon the on'ly one You-Know-Who feared was Dumbledore 'imself. Didn' dare an' try take the school, no' then, anyway." Hagrid shook his head, bushy beard shaking with him as Ianthe's heart dropped further and further.

"And then?" She asked in a quiet, in a weak voice, hands trembling as she clenched her trembling hands together painfully. 

"An' then? Well, I suppose it came to yer parents, ter Lily and James," --  _ Mum and Dad? voldemort, what did you do? -- terrible but great, nonetheless --  _ "Yer parents were powerful. They were 'ead Boy an' Girl in their day, bu' Lily was smartes' o' the batch, was gonna start a Charms Mastery aft'r the war, an' James was well-off too, tha' careless intelligence that drove others mad an' handy with duellin' too," he chuckled with fond remembrance, "...Suppose the myst'ry is why 'e never tried to get them on 'is side before. Probably knew they were too close wit' Dumbledore ter wan' anythin' ter do with the Dark Side." 

Hagrid looked at Ianthe, saw how her lips trembled and how she squeezed her hands just a tad too tight -- he swallowed, "Maybe 'e thought 'e coul'd persuade 'em…" Hagrid snorted, "Never, not if it cost you, Ianthe…or maybe 'e jus' wanted 'em outta the way; All anyone knows is tha' 'e came to get 'ouse in the village yer all were livin', Godric's 'ollow, on Hallow's Eve, no less, ten years ago. You was jus' a year ol'. 'E came to yer 'ouse an' -- an'" 

Hagrid reached deep inside his pocket and pulled out a dirty, spotted handkerchief, blowing his nose to rather rude looks from the other patrons. “S-sorry,” he said, tears springing in his eyes, “Knew yer mum an’ dad -- couldn’ fin’ nicer people anywhere -- anyway,” he took a deep breath, blinking back his tears, “‘e came to yer ‘ouse an’ e - e’... You- Know- Who killed ‘em. ‘e killed Lily an’ James,” Hagrid choked out, tears running down his face, slowly, gently,  _ (my soulmate killed my parents…? i-- no! it can’t -- but -- if you did -- why, why did you do it?) _

“An’ then -- an’ this is the real myst’ry o’ the issue, ‘e tried to kill you too”  _ (he tried to kill me? but we were for each other, remember?)  _ “wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he jus’ liked killin’ by then. Bu’ ‘e couldn’t do it. You’ve saw it in the Leaky, ‘ow ev’ryone flocked to ya, its cause o’ the curse. When a curse, a dark curse ‘its ya, when a spell tha’ should’ve taken yer life an’ you survive, magic feels it. Evr’yone’s magic feels it, Ianthe.” a tear slipped past, and a hope broke, deep inside, “bu’ tha’ spell, the spell tha’ took yer life when i’ was cast -- it didn’t work on you, Ianthe. It took care of yer parents,”  _ mama? dada? _ “took care of yer house too,”  _ the small pitter patter of feet, joyful laughs -- cherub giggles, adoring laughs and deeper ones -- they had lived in that house, _ “bu’ it didn’ work on ya, Ianthe. Once You-Know-Who decided to kill ya, no one survived. ‘e took out some o’ the greatest wix o’ the age -- the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts -- an’ you were on’ly a baby, bu’ you lived. Took yeh from the ruin’s o’ the house meself...” 

_ (mama loves you, dada loves you, -- protect her, Lady Hekate? – lily, run! – james! – not my daughter, you monster. – pathetic and without a wand -- move aside, you silly girl! -- not my baby! not my darling girl! -- a high, cold, cruel laugh -- avada kedavra! -- a flash of green light -- a heart wrenching scream -- and, a phoenix cry, tearful, soulful, why?)  _

Hagrid watched her sadly, watched as tears rolled by on her bronze cheeks, watched as Mika returned to her mistress and hissed, unknowing,  _ “Misssstress? Rani? What’ssss wrong? Ssssshall I bite it for you? Missssstressss, ansssswer me, I worry. Missssstresss!”,  _ watched as the snowy owl let out concerned hoots and Tonks stilled at the sight of Ianthe’s tears in the doorway, dropping the milkshake she’d been about to bring, being Ianthe’s birthday and all. 

Ianthe swallowed, throat suddenly parched and eyes red rimmed, tears still flowing, “And Voldemort? What happened to him?”  _ what happened to my soulmate -- can i call him that? -- the man who killed my parents?  _

Hagrid swallowed, feeling no warmth, “Good question, Ianthe. Brigh’ min’ with even brighte’ questions already,” he tried to chuckle, but it came out hollow, “e -- ‘e disappeared, the same nigh’ ‘e tried to kill ya. Makes yeh ev’n more famous. ‘e was gettin’ stronger an’ stronger --why’d ‘e vanish?”

He looked at her again, “Some say ‘e died. Codswallop, in my ‘pinion. Don’ think there was eno’gh ‘uman in ‘im to die. Others say e’s out there, bidin’ is time, bu’ I don’ believe it. People who were on ‘is side came back to ours; people who were in sorta trances came out o’ them. Don’ reckon they could’ve come ou’ o’ them if ‘e was comin’ back.” He cleared his throat, suddenly parched, and took a hearty swig of water, “Mos’ o’ u reckon e’s still out there, too weak to carry on bu’ bidin’ ‘is time. Cause somethin’ tha’ nigh, Ianthe -- somethin’ abou’ you finished ‘im alrigh’. There was somethin’ tha’ night tha’ ‘e ‘adn’t counted on -- I dunno what it was, no one does -- but somethin’ stumped him tha’ night, an’ it’s the reason yer so famous, Ianthe.”

Hagrid smiled at her, a warm admiration in his eyes despite the tale, and Ianthe -- despite the happiness she should feel for defeating this man, defeating the man who had terrorised the British Wixen World -- Ianthe only felt a cold dread, a heartbreaking sorrow, and hot heartfelt and angry tears welling up in her demonic eyes  _ (in the eyes that she inherited from her dead mother)  _ and a hand in the curly crow’s nest of a hair ( _ hair from her even deader father),  _ feeling as her head tilted up and she met Tonks’ worried stare, “Ianthe, are you alright?”

_ (my love, are you alright?) _

Something bubbled in her throat, bubbled up and up, and she tried to spew some reassurance, she tried, but all that she said was -- “He  _ murdered  _ them.”  _ (it was foolish to think she could be loved)  _ before pushing Tonks aside and rushing to the bathroom stall to cry and compose. 

_ (to fall and to rise -- to die and to be reborn) _

* * *

They stood on the train platform, Ianthe’s ticket in her pocket, and an assortment of odd packages and an owl and snake. Hagrid, who had kept sending worried looks her way, drew an envelope out of his pocket -- aged parchment with a crest -- and handed it to her. “Yer ticket for Hogwarts.” Hagrid said, brows pulled in worry, “Firs’ o’ September -- Kings Cross -- it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, sen’ me a letter with your owl, she’ll know where to find me.” 

Ianthe nodded, carrying the snowy owl and Mika onto the train while Hagrid brought the other packages. She sat down, the owl in her cage on the floor and Mika on her lap, surrounded by packages like she was the queen and the others her subjects. 

Hagrid opened his mouth, “Are you sure yeh don’ wan’ me ter tag along, Ianthe?” Ianthe gave him a kind smile, a tired smile; the same smile, Hagrid realised, that Lily had given him when Severus had broken her heart. “I’ll be fine, Hagrid.”  _ (the same reply.) _ Hagrid nodded, patting her shoulder, “Righ’,” he said, “I’ll see yeh at Hogwarts, Ianthe.” He would, wouldn’t he?

He stepped off the train, watching as Ianthe smiled through the glass, kind smile and tired eyes  _ (hard scowl and tired eyes -- kind smile and bright eyes) _ , waving to him, and as the train sped off; Hagrid watched Ianthe leave, hands clenched and a heavy pit in his stomach. 

* * *

She stood outside Number 4, packages strewn around her, Mika out of her cage and owl on one of her packages, a green-eyed girl collapsed on the floor, an empty look in her eye. Evening began to set, air turning colder as the street lights flickered to life. The door opened; yellow light flooded in front of her, Dudley looking at her with worried eyes, Uncle Vernon with a puffed chest and Aunt Petunia with crossed arms and a painful look in her eyes  _ (empty eyes and blank form, look at her).  _

“You found out, did you?” she said, long legs moving. 

And for the first time in her life, Aunt Petunia hugged Ianthe, bony arms and all. Ianthe tried to repress them, she did, but in the end, the tears spilled and Aunt Petunia hugged her, like a mother --  _ her  _ mother -- would’ve done.

Like  _ Lily  _ would’ve done. 

_ (Hush now, my love, all will be well.) _

_ (Hush now…) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN, DUN, DUUUN!
> 
> I sat on that ollivander scene (the deathly hallows and foe marks) for so long! such a hard time wording it! i hope you all had a wonderful time on halloween, did you get any treats? any costumes? 
> 
> but 18K, that's the most i've written for in one go (maybe not one go,) but, for me, it was a lot nonetheless. lets not forget that on halloween, lily and james died at the tender age of 21, and now we have ianthe finding out about their murders! i might have got a bit sad while writing that...
> 
> thank you for all the wonderful kudo's and comments, so don't be afraid to say hello!


	6. reflection and metamorphosis -- luctor et emergo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is beauty in pain -- and sometimes not. 
> 
> In the few word I can muster: luctor et emergo -- i struggle and i emerge
> 
> With that comes metamorphosis -- with that comes change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor self harm (i'm not too sure if it counts, but better on the safe side.)

* * *

_“You’re going to learn a lot of things, but it might be easier to keep living if you didn’t learn them, if you didn’t know them. You don’t realise that your body is on fire and burning up because of the things you did. You’ll understand one day. And then you’ll realise, for the first time, that you have many burns.” -- President Claudia Hogins_

_Violet Evergarden_

* * *

As dreams happen, they also come to an end. It is a sad truth of life, that some are born lucky and others not, and it was because of this reason that Ianthe decided Fate had decided to curse her -- or was it Lady Hekate as Professor Quirrell had said, the one known as Mother Magic?

Maybe it was both or even neither, for Ianthe was cursed, she knew; to the cupboard under the stairs, the Dursley’s lacking care and the knowing that her soulmate _(i am yours and you are mine, remember and never doubt -- )_ had been the one to murder her parents, had been the one to leave Ianthe with a giant gaping hole full of tears and cries for someone, anyone, to love her when she was a baby _(when she was helpless)_ **hurt.**

_ (why, why, why? -- cradle me -- don’t -- why did you leave me before i even knew of you?) _

That place in her heart that should have been full of familial love had never been filled, instead, it had been filled with the echoes of child-Lily’s and child-Sev’s smiles and laughter, been filled with burning green eyes and imagined mop of tangled curly male hair and golden-bronze skin. And as wonderful as that was, as delighted as Ianthe should have been to have even that -- she wished that she could have had  _ more;  _

In darkness and covered in her thin duvet, as a child of meager four with her toy soldiers lined up against a single wall  _ (hup two-three-four, hup two-three-four, attention! sev, you need to secure the battlement -- oh! mum, your arm fell off --) _ , with her shrivelled flowers in a single jar ( _ white heather and lily of the valley, pink carnation and daisies, amaryllis: the jewel of the crown --) _ and tucked in a shady corner, her eyes wide open with a single picture taken, with that picture of the child with red hair and demonic eyes  _ (demonic eyes, like her, the freak girl) _ with a sallow-skinned and hook-nosed boy by her side, with a soft smile and even softer eyes, with draping clothes and bunched up sleeves  _ (too-big clothes and just-showing red marks on his arms, like her, the delinquent girl)  _ with a silent plea, with a silent move of the the lips and hushed words, with a silent wish repeated every night -- _ i wish you were here, i wish you were mine; kisses from mum and hugs from dad, smiles from sev and one feeling: love. _

It is no fault of her own that she was left alone, unloved and uncared for _(a jump too high, like flying -- she lands, like a cat, on the ground_ ** _(a jump too high, like flying -- only that she lands -- appears -- on the roof, instead)_** _\-- freak!_ ** _(freak!)_** _\-- a daisy opened and closed_ ** _(an imagining of a snake, of brown coils and piercing eyes -- a long, protruding hiss)_** _\-- what are you? you’re not my sister!_ ** _(the child’s not normal -- delinquent ianthe lily potter)_** _\-- a letter sent -- you're a witch._ ** _(a child left on the door -- you will never belong.)_** it was no one’s fault except the man that murdered her parents -- Voldemort. 

It shouldn’t hurt this much, it shouldn’t leave a gaping hole inside Ianthe. It shouldn’t leave her with wet pillows and shaking shoulders in the night; it shouldn’t leave her with hateful eyes at that mark -- that forbidden mark -- on her collar, shouldn't leave her to trace the sloping words and elegant not-quite blood red script with her eyes, with a grey duvet around her shoulders; it shouldn’t leave her trying to scratch it off, clawing and fingernails bleeding on order to erase it -- in order to burn it; 

But it does. 

It leaves her with her neck bloody, scratched and clawed, blood dripping down onto her duvet and neck scratches surely to stay but that mark unharmed; It leaves her with that haunting not-quite blood red, and that lengthened lightning scar, the scar that she knows is the final gift of that night. 

It leaves her eyes dull, unlike their startling ferocity and otherworldliness, it leaves her hair -- tangled and wild, like a jungle, creeping and tangling and  **alive** _ (she’ll have the fiery evans’ hair for sure, lily-flower! -- a man curled on the sofa, book in one hand but lifting his head and a brow -- prongs, i think it more likely she’ll have the devil’s snare potter hair, what with your genes; remember the time you found your curls turned to actual snakes by sirius and peter? -- a blush red bloom on the glass-wearing man’s face -- moony!) --  _ lacklustre and knotted, with no life, only death in its wake. It leaves her with heavy eye bags and hair pulled and pulled, leaves her with trembling hands and only eating when everyone else is safe and asleep, where they can’t watch her; 

Aunt Petunia with burning eyes that say to her **_look at yourself, you’re pathetic_** _(but her thoughts say: look at lily’s daughter, my baby sister’s daughter, look at what has become of lily’s legacy;)_ Dudley watches with a pudgy frown and worried eyes that say **_what happened?_** _(ianthe we haven’t talked, just tell me so i can help -- you can’t! you’ve never cared before so don’t start now -- so just leave me alone! -- a door slammed and sobs from the second bedroom, a young boy, loved and cherished, with hands clenched and one thought -- i didn’t care before, yes, but i do now; you’re hurting_ (never let a friend hurt, duddikins) _so why won’t you let me help you?)_ and most of all, she can’t bear the rugged concern Uncle Vernon treats her with _(girl, you’re all skin and bones! go eat some more! -- why’s there blood on the duvet, girl! and tell me what happened to your neck! -- (even when she’s not being otherworldly, she’s still a freak-- she looks terrible, like she’s dead inside. i knew it, magic did this. magic!)_

August passes like a summer breeze making way for autumn leaves; not yet, but soon. After the hug ( _ bony arms and whimpers in petunia’s neck, but she wanted her mum’s arms; wanted soft arms and whimpers in a bundle of blood-red hair, wanted kissed on her forehead and being wrapped up in her dad’s arms, wanted -- it’ll get better, my darling whispered in her hair, wanted -- wanted --)  _ but she didn’t get that, and so she instead sobbed into the arms of the only one who understood what it meant to lose love  _ (come on lil, i’ll paint your toes; see, mum got me this pretty polish -- really ‘tuney? -- mhhm. now come here! -- sister giggles and spilt polish on the duvet -- wah! mum’s gonna be so mad, ‘tuney! -- don’t worry, i'll protect you lily! -- promise? -- promise. -- but in the end, it was lily who had protected her.) _

~~_ (and now, she must protect lily’s daughter -- how, how, how? how can i protect with no magic -- she’s self-destructing -- tell me how --) _ ~~

Ianthe had taken the only hug from Petunia in her life and held it close. She thought maybe things would’ve gotten better, that maybe Aunt Petunia would’ve held even a midget of care for Ianthe, but she hadn’t _ (unwanted and unloved, _ was what brown-haired and blue-eyed rose waterloo had said, _ no one even likes you, freaky and stupid, that’s what you are. you can’t even beat jilly cooper, and she’s the slowest in the class _ \--  _ but i can, _ ianthe had wanted to say,  _ it’s just that dudley’s behind her and i can’t be better than dudley! _ \-- and then she proceeded to splat orange paint on her face --  _ see? much better.  _ she had said with a little smirk, before flouncing away) and instead, she had taken to ignoring Ianthe’s very existence; 

(trying and  _ trying  _ to ignore the scratch marks on her neck, the blood on the duvet, the heavy eye bags and the dulled eyes  _ (what happened to the other freak? _ \-- dull eyes and a humorless smile -- _ he isn’t welcome anymore ‘tuney.) _ and matted hair  _ (that boyfriend of yours can’t seem to tame his hair  _ \-- a vindictive insult to break her sister for that awful double date they’d gone on --  _ the devil’s snare potter hair, ‘tuney. _ \-- lily had said, wiping her tears away surreptitiously with her dress sleeve. petunia rolled her eyes, a bitter feeling rising up --  _ don’t tell me; a magical plant. _ \-- lily blinked, a smile twitching --  _ it is ‘tuney! it can constrict or strangle anything around it and _ \--  _ god lily! i don’t want to know! don’t you get it? i don’t want anything to do with fucking devil’s snare or potter or -- or  _ **_you!_ ** _ i don’t want anything to do with your freaky magic! --  _ she pretended she couldn’t see the teary eyes or those soft sniffles, pretended that she couldn’t hear the stifled sobs or the sharp crack that made her disappear like... _ magic.), _

__ Pretended that she didn’t notice the hours Ianthe spent barricaded in her room.)

Ianthe had taken the hurt and buried it inside, like she had done all her life. Others might have said it was unhealthy, but right now, Ianthe cried enough without wondering about why Aunt Petunia had hugged her and then decided to ignore her. 

Sadness was nothing new to Ianthe and yet she had never had anyone (except Miss Nirmala) care for her, even if they were animals. Mika constantly hissed her questions,  _ “Rani, what isss wrong? Tell me, tell me Mistresssss, I will make whoever hurt you pay! Rani?... Please, tell me what’sss wrong. I just want to help…”  _ and Hedwig (the snowy owl she had decided after finding the name in  _ A History of Magic)  _ who would peck her fingers, nipping them in worry and collecting dead mice in a misconstrued attempt to cheer her up (they eventually ended up in either Hedwig's belly after she had gotten hungry or Mika’s --  _ don’t look at me like that sssssstupid bird, it’s not like you’re not eating your ssssupposssed gift’ssss to Missstressss asss well! _ \-- a hoot of outrage that probably meant  _ How dare you, you wastrel of a familiar! _ ) 

Nevertheless, despite her deep sadness, life continued on for Ianthe behind closed doors, despite Dudley’s worries. She had spent the time cooped up reading up on her books like Professor Quirrell had suggested (in the most condescending way possible) and had found them very interesting; she slogged through A History of Magic  _ (how many goblin wars are there?)  _ marvelled at the many creatures in Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them  _ (a bassssalissssk, misssstresss… the mahraja -- the king -- of the sssserpentssss…)  _ and was fascinated with Magical Theory  _ (the simple effect of flicking the wrist when casting greatly amplifies the success of casting rate;)  _ and Magical Drafts and Potions  _ (wouldn’t it be better if they added the porcupine quills first and then the dried nettles? what do you think, Mika, Hedwig? -- mistresss i am not a potionssss guru, and neither is your ssstupid bird -- a squawk of outrage and a harsh peck to Mika’s tail -- slitted eyes and hissing -- pesssst! how dare you! i will eat you if you do that again -- Hedwig hooted, something that sounded like a hoity-toity -- i’d like to see you try) _

Ianthe poured over the many tomes, scoffing at Wixen Culture  _ (some of these rules are ridiculous!)  _ and struggled over Latin  _ (but then if you substitute the verb with -- but then how does that work?! -- luctor et emergo -- i struggle and i emerge)  _ and marvelled at the descriptions in Hogwarts: A History  _ (ghosts Mika, ghosts! -- that’ssss nothing, you sssshould ssssee the ghossstssss in the old palacessss, essspecially the taj mahal -- the rani’sss ghossst -- mumtaz mahal -- is ssstill there i believe -- ...you’re joking!) _ and was delighted with The Muggleborn and Muggle-Raised Guide  _ (never feel you are invalid. it is a new world that you have stepped into and you -- we -- must learn and prevail; the wixen world has its own social prejudices and turmoils, but we shall not let that make us falter -- we are strong and we will revolutionize this world for many years to come, my dear readers.)  _ and cross-referenced One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and Potions: How Not To Be A Complete Dunderhead  _ (oh, so that's why you don't put the porcupine quills first! and asphodel -- my regrets follow you to the grave…? such a sombre meaning--) _

Some books, however, had been left untouched: 

The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts  _ \-- contents:...chapter 18: you-know-who, the potter’s and samhain eve),  _

Soulmates: The Mystery, The Lore and The Fact _ \-- my extensive studies caused me to approach the Shaman’s of Tibet who regaled me with their ancient stories of the foe mark…  _

Notable Figures in Recent Wixen History: Hogwarts Alumni, Political Figures and more! --  _ the man self-proclaimed as Lord Voldemort began his ascension to power first in the 1970’s, seeking alliances with all sorts of dark creatures and unsavoury characters… _

Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald: Rise, Fight and Fall _ \-- ...overseeing his muggle troops in Belgium, Grindelwald was unknowing that across the ocean, Transfiguration Professor Albus Dumbledore -- known to be the greatest student that had ever graced Hogwarts halls -- set afoot his journey... _

Hogwarts and Her Founders: A Biography  _ \-- The four of them, new and young to the world, set upon their travels, happening upon many along the way who would soon become the staples and first Professors of their school... _

__ Runes: A Beginner’s Guide  _ \-- the rune sowilo; a sigil of the sun which symbolizes many things: Health, Honour, Resources, Cleaning, Wholeness and Victory... _

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection  _ \-- despite its pranking reputation, the tickling charm can be used to distract the opponent from saying any spell’s outloud, making them useless! _

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration  _ \-- the subject of transfiguration is complex, and grasping control of such a complicated subject is even harder; however, that is why this book was made, to make a young student’s journey that little bit easier... _

And finally, The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)  _ \-- --and of course, we must not forget the flick of the wrist -- remember, flick! _

The latter few _ (well, the latter six)  _ were because she simply hadn’t had the time -- she certainly wasn’t a super reading machine like some people out there. Even reading the books she had was an accomplishment, seeing as she found it difficult to concentrate and get through a whole book in a week let alone the amount she had in the short August time; she was not normally this eager to read ( _ her mind flashes back to the time Miss. Nirmala had threatened to withhold any sweets until Ianthe completed her comprehension homework -- Miss Nirmala…)  _ but faced with all the unknown, all this terrifying excitement, she can’t help but think she  _ needs  _ to be prepared. 

As for the former three, call it foolish and foolhardy -- call it downgrading and treacherous, because how could she fear the name on her collar that she had known the true purpose of for only a few hours  _ (how could she fear the name that had been with her all her life? -- been whispered in the dark -- been caressed under creaking stairs? --)  _ how could her heart break at the longing thought of her soulmate? 

Yet it did, and any mention of him was to be avoided; to be stamped out, like Aunt Petunia had wanted to stamp out the word  _ magic.  _ Ianthe knew he was the Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard of the age -- the man that still left Hagrid scared and afraid  _ (that left her family broken --);  _ she knew he was a figure -- an important figure in fact, a person who had regaled in the destruction and chaos his power brought  _ (regaled in the dead men and women -- the dead children; regaled in the dead families -- the bones, the prewetts, the mckinnons -- the potters (her family -- why, oh why? why -- tell me, please --!);  _

She knew he would be in those books -- and maybe it was cowardly of her to avoid them, to tuck them in a corner, hoping that they could be ignored -- but it was the only way she knew how _ (how to protect herself -- tuck her hurt in a corner -- to live -- pretend it -- she -- was not a stain) _ . Maybe the mentions of V-- You-Know--Who _ (no, say it: Voldemort. you will not cower, you will not cry -- don’t cry --)  _ would be understandable, but soulmates? 

Why would she hide such a thing, you might ask; it was foolish and childish, but perhaps, if she ignored the word  _ soulmate  _ she would be able to ignore the aching, longing feeling as well, don’t you think? 

_ (idiot. why are you doing this to yourself? -- the voice, only -- sad? -- why are you sad? -- sad, sad, sad -- disappointed and -- slipping… the tears are slipping…?) _

Nonetheless, Ianthe hid herself away and came out during the night -- like a hedgehog -- and devoured the books she could during the day. Mika slithered and would slither out the window to hunt  _ (The thrill isss in the chasssse, Mistressssss…)  _ while Hedwig would do the same; Dudley would carry on with his day, placing a teacup outside the door every morning which Ianthe would drink all the same. Uncle Vernon would go off to work and Aunt Petunia would carry on with her day, and at exactly 3 o'clock every afternoon, the knocking would sound -- Miss Nirmala’s knocking. 

_ (ianthe, ianthe! open the door! please, open the door -- please...meri jaan, please, open the door, i’m worried...i’m back, i’m back and i won’t leave again, just please, open the door; meri jaan, please --!) _

It would carry on for as long as possible, and when Miss Nirmala got tired, she would slump against the door, cradling her bruised knuckles and wait, waiting until the lights dimmed and the streetlight’s flickered, waiting until Aunt Petunia finally shooed her off the front steps and wearily make her way home, the bag of sweets discarded  _ (but they weren’t mean to be discarded; ianthe had always eaten the leftover sweets, had always taste-tested the new ones -- why wouldn't she talk to her? why, why, why --)  _

The ticket to the station  _ (Platform Nine and Three Quarters -- where is that? )  _ was safely placed in a book under the rickety desk that was in the second bedroom, Ianthe’s trunk at the foot of her bed and drained teacup and saucer on her scratched up bedside drawer; a letter from Professor Quirrell  _ (...the Headmaster has agreed to your snake, but should it run loose, it will be on your head, Miss Potter -- )  _ in her desk drawer and several from Mr Ollivander  _ (...and then we snuck in and enchanted poor Professor Torett’s chandelier to sprout Gobstones slime every time someone twirled -- the third years were delighted to skip waltzing! I’m sure you’ll love Hogwarts, there is nothing quite like it -- like there is no other wand shop like Ollivanders, if you don’t mind me saying, Ianthe. And then, there are of course the secret passages--)  _ with it. 

Mika’s enclosure next to the desk while Hedwig’s cage took a place on a small circular table that’s leg Ianthe had had to fix. Her books lay scattered around the place and her wand and the picture of mum and Sev _(her two most prized possessions -- her two treasures -- you, ianthe,_ _are my treasure -- someone, say it -- self-destructing, self-destructing, stop --)_ tucked neatly in the tiny space between the headboard and the mattress; 

And so this was how her life carried out for the last part of the month: no silent sobbing anymore (she supposed her tears had dried up) but only an aching, longing feeling; books read and creased spines, dog-marked pages in her potions books for important pages and silent stroking of her soulmark in the night, demon eyes glowing as soft hisses and shallow hoots lulled her to sleep; witch’s hour stirrings and tip-toeing down the stairs, where she raided the fridge for leftovers and where a chocolate bar always waited  _ (Teaser’s  _ \-- her favourite) which she snatched eagerly  _ (dudley, dudley, dudley -- talk to him -- speak to him -- tell him -- it’ll help--)  _ and hummed at the sweet taste; she lived with 3 o’ clock afternoon knocks and letters to and from Mr Ollivander; 

And as she munched on the final bite pushed the plate away, placing it in the centre of her desk, tossing the now-dry parchment full of experimental quill strokes in the silver bin, she fell back on her bed, tummy full and sleep schedule messed up, eyes hollow and heart empty, her hair lank but still tangled, Mika asleep and Hedwig probably soaring outside somewhere; taking a breath, soft fingers coming up to her collar bone, she caressed the mark and breathed in deeply and out as well, her heart beating  _ (warm and alive and beating-- without him)  _ as her lips drew open, a plea on the tip of her tongue: 

_ breathe. let me breathe, please…  _

Her mind would wander as she would curl up in a ball as one hand would go under her pillow to gently touch the picture and the other would curl up in her neck, as her eyes would flutter shut, heavy with sleep and the world would move on, leaving her in a frozen moment of a shallow existence, leaving her not in easy sleep but knowing that the sun would rise again and she with it. 

_ (that hope would rise again and she with it -- that a phoenix will burn but be reborn.) _

~~_ (but dear, how foolish to believe you could breathe so easily -- ) _ ~~

* * *

Petunia Dursley neé Evans was not a kind woman. 

Not at all; she held no kindness except for her son and husband. She had been shaped in the world of  _ normal. _ Where young vindictive and petty young girls would try to beat her down for her lacklustre looks but would recoil when she would fight back, all sneers and biting words, jabbing at their weak points and flaws; where she would go out every Saturday with her girl-friends and giggle and gossip over a local cook up of fish and chips. 

There was no place for magic and wands; no place for green eyes and tangled curly hair, no place for snakes and owls, no place for bloodied sheets and scratched up necks and  _ soulmarks  _ and the murder of her wastrel of a sister and the wizard named _ James Potter  _ and their child, and yet, as the door spluttered shut as a messy-haired girl went out, bare-foot and a kind smile on her lips and tired look in her eye, the accursed snake at her heels, Petunia grimaced and huffed, remembering the thought of another girl, red-haired and demon-eyed and like a firework walking out the house, bare-footed after the whole summer spent in her room, a fragile smile as she greeted the Peale’s and tired look in her eye as she spotted the willow tree. 

No, Petunia Dursley neé Evans was not a kind woman, but she was understanding, and as she mixed the cake batter, adding the chocolate powder and brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes  _ (nothing like her sister’s blood-red hair -- nothing! nothing like magic -- like lily --) _ and spared a glance at Dudley who climbed up the stairs, a determined glint in his eyes that she had seen on both herself and Lily and Ianthe (a glint she had seen in the Evans’ blood --), she turned back to her mixing and she harrumphed. 

She may not like her niece, who was too strange and magic to even be a part of the Dursley family, but she did understand that people needed time to themselves, like she had after Lily left for that -- that  _ school.  _ She may not be kind, but she would do what it took to protect her sister’s daughter, that last part of Liy she had left, and if that meant baking the Evans' sister’s favourite dessert  _ (‘tuney! mum made chocolate cake! -- a crash and an ‘oompth!’ from the young horse-necked girl who tumbled down the stairs -- lily! don’t eat it without me --)  _ then that was what it took. 

And if she was a bit peckish herself, if she wanted to even pretend that it was child-Lily instead of her daughter, Lily who would always get that final crumb and Lily who would always dab the frosting on Petunia’s nose, then who would know except Petunia herself? And if instead, she didn’t want child Lily, but instead wanted her own sort of daughter -- a daughter who could eat her dessert with a grin and mischievous twinkle in her eye and inside jokes with Dudley, like she had had with Lily, then who needed to know?

If Petunia worried, wanted to know what had happened, wanted to know why she heard choking sobs for the first week of August, wanted to know why green eyes were left dull and crawling hair dead and messy, wanted to know why a young girl woke at witch’s hour and ate then, _ wanted to know why  _ \-- wanted to know why this world of magic was so terrible that it left blood on her niece’s duvet and a scratched-up neck, then no one needed to know but her, after all.

_ (no one needed to know about her worried glances and scrutinizing eyes every time the girl came down after all, looking -- searching for new scratches or fresh blood; no one needed to know about how it was her who had left the chocolate -- teaser’s, lily’s favourite; no one needed to know how she watched the owl soar every night and the soft hisses of the snake and lay awake every night listening to the soft creaks of clumsy feet on floorboards as she collected the food and came back up, shutting her door before petunia’s eyes finally shut close, her fears abated -- no, no one needed to know but petunia, after all --) _

* * *

_ (fly away so high, and see -- see -- ) _

_ (-- what do i see?) _

Dudley Dursley was a strange boy.

Not in the way like Ianthe, no, not like magic. 

It was different. 

He would push and pull, would make younger kids cry and bully them, and would grin at the way they would huddle up on themselves, snivelling into their arms and helplessly lay waste to the punches from Dudley and his gang; but with his cousin, he would helplessly marvel at the way Ianthe would never cry but instead clench her jaw and make her eyes glow, rear her arm back before punching Piers in the face before running away, a smirk on her face. 

His mum and dad would belittle her, shower him with presents while she would stand in a corner during Christmas, quietly washing the Christmas dishes before hurrying out the door and turning the corner, probably humming on the way to the confectioner’s sweetshop -- a place run by the woman who Ianthe always hung out with --  _ Nirmala Chakrabarti, _ dad had called her,  _ an Indian -- good for nothing and stealing our jobs! And a woman to boot! _

He would watch Ianthe out the window, see her tipping her head back as the weak winter sun would shine and make her eyes sparkle, those demonic eyes that were alight with joy instead of anger in that moment. He would screw his eyes shut and demand for more dessert from his mum, who would tut but acquiesce after the pointed look Aunt Marge would send her way after her initial refusal. Dudley would gorge himself on gingerbread men and candy canes, on Christmas tarts and chocolate coins, to try and put a humming Ianthe out of his mind, to try and put the girl who was shoved in a cupboard and could still smile out of his mind, and yet, he couldn’t it seemed. 

He was strange in the way he would sometimes watch Ianthe cook breakfast and think  _ that’s not right.  _ He was strange in the way that he would watch her prune the rose bushes in summer and wonder  _ what about me?  _

He was strange in the way that while his mum and dad would scream at Ianthe for climbing on the roof, he would huddle and link his pudgy arms together, wondering in his mind -- _ she didn’t climb up, so how did she get there?  _

He was strange in the way he looked at the aged letter and something burning kindled inside when he found it was addressed to Ianthe instead of him; he was strange in the way the giant -- the giant called Hagrid -- had said  _ muggle  _ and then  _ non-magic folk  _ together that made him burn up inside, that made him undeniably jealous -- made him undeniably envious and made him want to rage and whine and seethe like a baby. 

He was strange in the way that he wanted  _ magic,  _ wanted hooting owls flying from his window and odd packages piled up in his room and a hissing snake; he was strange in the way that though he wanted all these things, that though he wanted magic and was envious of his cousin and jealous, he was able to push through it and worry for his cousin. 

Worry for the demon-eyed girl called Ianthe who he had left a teacup for every morning and who he had worried for while he hung outside with Piers and his gang; he was strange in the way he watched her door obsessively, memorising her shallow creaks on the carpeted steps and wondering why she seeked to avoid all of the Dursley residents. He was strange in the way that once she was out the door, bare-foot and with her snake at her ankles, the first thing he did was rush upstairs, a determined glint in his eyes as he thundered up. 

He opened the door with the silver handle, and looked inside -- a golden metal cage housing a beady amber-eyed owl stared back at him avidly. Dudley gulped, stepping inside; books lay scattered around, some on the messed-up bed and other on top of the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. The desk was overflowing, covered in brown parchment and stacked books. He inched closer, feeling the birds glowering eyes at his side, and picked up the broken feather that was covered in a black liquid -- ink, he realised. 

He dipped it in the small purple bottle that sat on top of a few scraps of paper, and made a few strokes, pulling a face at the way some turned out much too thick and the others barely there; he left the feather alone an turned to a folded piece of parchment, addressed to a person -- Ianthe. _ “...the demiguise hair is very precious as I said Ianthe, they are primarily found in the Far East; I do not believe their hairs can be used as wand cores, however that is food for thought --”  _ Dudley muttered, marvelling at the gentle curls and the nimble strokes of the feathered pen. 

Other thing lay on the desk -- a book titled  _ Wixen Culture: The Fundamentals _ and  _ A History Of Magic;  _ he opened the second book and looked inside, and though he absolutely despised reading, he gaped at the contents page -- _ Chapter XVI: The Centaur Uprising of 1583  _ and  _ Chapter XXVIII: The Statute of Secrecy.  _ It was surreal, Dudley decided, the way that this whole world -- this whole history had the means to be hidden away except for a select society. 

He sat himself down in the chair and leant back, kicking his foot under the desk but impacting on something in a far corner; gasping, and clenching his foot in pain, he rubbed his toes, bending down see what it was he had hit, he spotted couple of books in the back. It wasn’t one of the many books that Dudley had been gifted but hadn’t bothered to read, no, it was another magic book -- scratch that, a  _ few more _ magic books. 

Using his grubby hands, he pulled them out (three in total, he absentmindedly noticed); huffing, he placed them on the desk, wiping the slight sheen of dust that had collected. The first one was embossed in gold with a dark background, a simple title on the front along with the author:  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts: A 21 _ _ st _ _ Century Addition  _ by Georgina Ursula,  _ Soulmates: The Mystery, The Lore and The Fact  _ by Niko Azaralon and  _ Notable Figures in Recent Wixen History: Hogwarts Alumni, Political Figures and more! _ By Louie Arellano. 

Dudley swallowed, flipping the cover of the first book open and scanning the contents page; One thing Dudley knew about his cousin was that she wouldn’t hide anything unless she was truly scared -- it was something his mum and Ianthe had in common. Watery eyes scanned the page and stopped at a single line:  _ Chapter 18: you-know-who, the potter’s and samhain eve. _

_ The Potters?  _ Dudley thought, eyebrows creasing together,  _ why’re they in here?  _

His chubby fingers flipped to the page -- page 263, where Chapter 18 started; He leant back in chair, fingers turning page after page, finally reaching page 263 but nicking himself on a sharp edge, that belonged not to the pages with glimmering ink and moving pictures but to a completely separate piece of paper; this one was placed right in the centre of the start of Chapter 18, acting as a sort of book mark. Dudley gently released it from its hold in the centre and turned it over in his hand, admiring it’s scarlet red colour and golden embellishment, reading it right-side up and tracing the words with a pudgy finger, “Platform Nine and Three Quarters…” he said, lifting his head up, “Wonder where that is?” he muttered, but eyes widening at the next bit, “Departure, September First…? “

_ So soon? _ He wondered,  _ only a week left. _

Yes, there was only a week left until she left for Hogwarts. Until she left for a place of magic, with owls and snakes, with odd assortments of packages and people like her. People who were able reappear from one spot to the next, people who would teach her about _ magic, _ people who wouldn’t fear her glowing eyes but welcome them instead; There was only a week left until she forgot about Dudley, forgot about the Dursleys’ in the brick house with nicely-painted fences and neatly cut lawn, forgot about the pruned rose bushes and the rotund boy called Dudley who wanted above all to be  _ magic,  _ to be like her. 

Maybe, at a different time, he wouldn't have been that worried, but this was different; she would leave without saying goodbye. He had spent all this time worried, wondering what had happened to turn head-strong and biting Ianthe into such a self-destructive wreck, and there was the possibility that she would leave without ever letting Dudley help. She would leave without ever letting Dudley experience magic side by side with Ianthe, even if it was just for a moment. 

The snowy owl hooted as Dudley turned his head to the bird, watching as the beady amber eyes looked past him, “What’re you looking at?” he snorted, returning to placing the ticket on the desk and letting his beady eyes turn to the page until a familiar biting voice was heard, “That’d be at me, Dudley.”

Dudley shivered, feeling a burning glare directed at him as he turned to the now-ajar door where his cousin stood, glowing eyes with a stony look in her eye, leaning against the doorframe as her bare feet brushed the créme carpet. A purple shirt, longer and decorated in metallic gold buttons, reached upto her mid-thighs as her snake -- venomous eyes and hissing furiously, wrapped itself around her bare ankles that had not been able to be covered by her black leggings; Dudley gulped as the book dropped on the floor and thudded, not noticing the painful look Ianthe sent to the object at noticing it’s title and instead more preoccupied with fearing for his life. 

Her eyes glowed once more, brighter and brighter, until they seemed like they were arsenic; “Get out.” she hissed, eyes narrowed and hair wild, fanged snake at her side as she came nearer, stopping just a meter in front of him from where he sat in the desk seat. He swallowed, bringing up the shallow courage he knew he possessed, “Ianthe --”

She stepped forward, hands coming to her side, “Did you not hear me?” she bit out, steel in her voice and repressed anger nearing closer and closer, “Get out, before I do something --  _ anything  _ \-- that you’ll wish I didn’t.”

Maybe a braver person would have taken Ianthe head on, would have stood their ground and demanded to have their place in this room, but even Dudley, who had spent his childhood pushing and shoving Ianthe, had spent his childhood the recipient of glowing eyes and burning glares and freakish powers, had never seen his cousin this terrible, this raging -- this close to unleashing what he imagined to be a dragon’s rage  _ \-- a demon’s rage --  _ on someone. 

Her eyes glowed and she bit her lips, blood emerging, tasting metallic and tangy upon her tongue; her toes curled in the soft carpet as her hands clenched, nails biting into the softly marred skin. Her eyes burned and her hair stood on end, as if reacting to her rage, and she almost felt as if she had grown fangs like her familiar as the overwhelming need to  _ bite  _ \-- to  _ tear  _ and  _ rage  _ and _ miam,  _ emerged. 

If you looked at her now, someone lesser and even someone stronger would have been scared shitless at the sight, been terrified out of their minds at the bloodied lips and glowing demonic eyes and the snake at her heels, as if staring at a manifestation of an otherworldly being themselves, but to the people who had seen the child James Potter and Lily Evans, it wouldn’t have been out of place. 

The burning eyes that belonged to Lily and her dainty skin that broke far too easily, the bloody lips that James’ parents had to clean up too often with a concerned shake of the head after he got far too enraged, the hair that seemed to have a life of its own as his magic react to his rage, making the curls stick up on end and move viciously in his overwhelming desire to break something, to destroy something. It never happened often, no, but when it did, it was a sight to behold. 

_ (a shatter of glass against a wall -- a seething rage in normally-warm hazel eyes and bloodied lips -- a curled lip and scattered remains of delicate glass at his feet as his hair rose, enchanted, deadly -- as if having a life of its own -- how dare they, sirius! -- prongs... -- a tired, weak voice, nothing like his normally jubilant voice -- don’t -- i’ll kill them if they so much as look at you again! -- a promise; a vow.) _

Lily’s anger was like a spitfire, raging and borne of life, while James was hard to bring out, brewing and burning deep inside and rarely unleashed as he instead decided to focus on the positives, not that Ianthe knew that. 

~~_ (the evans’ fury -- the potter rage -- a waiting hellfire born in their spawn --)  _ ~~

No, all she knew was that she was enraged beyond belief, because Dudley had the nerve to enter upon this place, this place that had been her sanctuary all this summer;  _ How dare he indeed _ , the voice said, viscous and vengeful, the once-soft voice he had used to console Ianthe once this summer gone,  _ I think we should make him pay, don’t you? _

_ Of course you do, _ Ianthe had snarked back in her mind, focusing intently on the boy in the chair, teeth clenching as a fire filled her up inside. 

“Get out.” she had said once more, inching closer and closer until she stood only a few centimetres away from her cousin; he looked at her with wide eyes, and though she knew she should have been ashamed, been afraid of this all-consuming rage, she couldn’t help herself. Dudley stood, only a few inches taller than herself as he let out a shaking breath, “Okay. But --” he looked at her eyes, looked at the glowing, burning demons eyes, true, but he looked deeper; looked at the rage and the hurt and the thrill of fire that burned, and he knew despite all Ianthe would ever do, he couldn’t let all this loathing burn her to shreds,  _ couldn’t.  _

“I’m worried Ianthe. You’re burning up inside, I don't know why, but you are; you’re shredding yourself to pieces,” he didn’t think these words would make an impact, but he had to do it -- to save his cousin -- his new-found friend -- that he had never been able to save before “I don’t want to believe it’s because of magic. I don’t want to be forced to believe mum and dad, that magic only brings mayhem, okay? So you need to stand up, like you always do and punch whatever it is that is making you self-destruct in the face, like you did with Piers that one time,” his lips quirked, “That’s all I’m asking. Please,” he said, digging his toes in the carpet, “listen to me.” 

He cast a final glance her way before brushing past her, his shoulder bumping against hers as he left the door ajar behind him, a churning feeling in his stomach. 

_ (please, listen to me.)  _

As he stepped into his own room, grabbing it’s silver handle, he caught the look on her face as she looked back at him; creased brows and set jaw, burning eyes and a frown upon her lips -- as if to say  _ what do you mean?i’m not burning.  _ it lasted for a scant moment until she turned back to the book, the now-too familiar burning in her eyes, the snake hissed, coming closer to the door and nudging it close with her head before Dudley heard a loud thud of something hitting a brick wall. 

The door stared back, and Dudley bit his lip, turning back and closing his own door, hoping,  _ hoping,  _ \-- hoping that he could help her.

That he could save Ianthe from herself.

_ (try and try and try -- a phoenix will burn only for who she wishes, it is the natural order of life…) _

* * *

_ (fall fast asleep, my darling...) _

A whimper.

There, in the corner. 

Ianthe stepped forward, transparent and opaque all at once, as if she was shrouded in mist, but her features still discernible, hair wild and the brightest features her eyes, as if some ghost apparition, and she stepped forward, pushing a wardrobe door open. 

A small boy sat there, pale blue eyes -- like a clear winter’s morning -- no, like ice -- that had reddened with tears streaming down his face. Tousled brown hair that lay in a slight wave and bitten lips that sported spotted blood; his hands lay shaking in his hands as the clothes he was dressed in -- fraying tweed jacket that seemed far too big, a brown jumper underneath that was threadbare, grey trousers that sported all sorts of tears and scratches, and socks and shoes that looked like they had seen better days -- looked as if they did barely anything against the freezing chill. 

She felt as if she knew him. Why?

Out the window, Ianthe could spot gently drifting snow, and yet the boy who sat in the wardrobe seemed not at all joyed at the prospect of snow, only crying in his corner of the wardrobe. Ianthe looked at the boy, and though he didn’t seem to notice her, she couldn’t let him hurt; how many times had she hidden away in her cupboard, crying her small heart out? How many times had she sobbed into her duvet that first week of August, wanting someone who would understand? 

_ (too many.) _

Ianthe bit her lip, bending down; “Hey…” she tried to start, but it seemed as if he didn’t notice her, only crying and sniffling harder. His blue eyes let more tears bubble to the surface as she went down on her knees and crawled closer. Her hand was transparent, true, but she had to try -- extending her hand, she gripped his worn jacket cuff, “Hey…”

His eyes widened as his sniffles stilled for the moment, tears still silently dripping down his face, but his pale blue eyes now fixed on her. His pale hand touched hers, tiny but taking her’s. He marveled at her hand, she was still transparent and yet the colour seemed to slowly be returning to her. First the golden-bronze of her skin, then the purple of her dress -- the black of her legging next and upwards the rich ebony of her hair and finally, the luminescent green of her eyes that crinkled in concern at the young boy. 

His hand let go of her hand and touched her nose, “What are you?” he breathed out, but it was rude nonetheless. 

Ianthe snorted as she flicked his forehead, “Not  _ Who?  _ Didn’t anyone teach you manners?” she said as he rubbed his forehead, not perturbed by his disgruntled expression. He lifted an eyebrow, “Manners? You just flicked my forehead!” 

Ianthe smirked, “Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’, “Now budge up, I won’t be able to fit otherwise.” The boy stared dumbly at her, before shaking out of his reverie, “In here?” he said, incredulous. “Where else?” Ianthe asked, nudging him shoe-clad foot with her own bare-foot one, “But you’re bare foot!” he protested, a steel in his eye. “All the best people are,” Ianthe replied easily, ducking her head in the wardrobe as the boy glared mutinously but scooted all the same. 

_ It was easy, _ she mused,  _ forgetting the pain -- the hurt -- the sorrow -- the despair -- with this boy at her side, who reminded her of herself.  _

She smiled at him as he stared at her, blue eyes asking and  _ asking  _ so many unvoiced questions. “Are you going to tell me what you are?” Ianthe tapped his nose, “A person.” she answered. 

“But then,” the boy said, “Why...why are you not fully  _ here?” _ Ianthe smiled softly, “I needed to escape. Where better than my dreams?” The boy sent her a quizzical look, “You’re dreams? Don’t be daft...”

“Can you explain why I’m not fully here, then?” 

Ice blue eyes stared back testing before a small ‘no’ slipped past; He looked pained to admit it. He stretched out his legs, tiny and short in comparison to Ianthe who had always been short and very skinny; “But then…” he said quietly, “Why would you dream of Wool’s?”

Wool’s _ \-- Wool’s Orphanage.  _

“You’re Tom,” Ianthe slipped out, before clapping her hands to her mouth. Tom’s eye grew shrewd, “How do you know that?” he demanded, leaning forward so that his forehead was parallel to Ianthe’s chin. Ianthe’s eyes dimmed, “This isn't the only dream I’ve been in,” his eyes pierced her intently; “Mrs. Cole is a foul woman, to do those things to you in the basement.”

His eyes widened as his jaw clenched, hissing out his next words,  _ “No one is supposed to know.” _

Ianthe stared back, suddenly taken by a longing to help him -- to care for him, because of what he had gone through. The same wild look in his eye  _ (no one can know, not even miss nirmala), _ the tightly clenched jaw  _ (no one, no one, no one,)  _ and the zealous clench of the hands _ (hide the hurt -- god, hide the hurt…) _

Ianthe shook her head, “No, no one can know -- that is, until you're ready to share.” she smiled, linking their fingers together, brushing her fingers against his soft finger pads, “Mind telling me why you were crying?” she said softly, still brushing his fingers. 

His eyes hardened. “No,” he bit out, all previous traces of vulnerability gone as he turned his head the other way, “You don’t need to know,” Ianthe still brushed his fingers gently, letting them travel up as Tom’s hand relaxed imperceptibly before flinching after Ianthe brushed his wrist. Her brows creased as she lifted the jumper sleeve underneath, finally noticing the angry red marks on his wrists -- marks that seemed to have rubbed away at the skin. 

_ (the priest can burn for all i care, but i’m not going near him, not again!) _

_ Exorcism, _ the voice said bitterly,  _ the vilest of punishments for devilish boys. _

She lifted his wrist up and tenderly gripped the sides, careful to avoid the angry red marks, and gently pressed her lips against the marks  _ \-- the rope marks -- (tighter and tighter and tighter, and burning, burning, against his skin --)  _ and lifted her head back up, turning to the wide-eyed boy, “It’ll get better, Tom.” 

_ (it’ll get better, ianthe.) _

His eyes hardened and a hatred and hopeless fuelled vitriol spat out of his lips,  _ “Liar,” _ he seethed, “You’re such a  _ liar.”  _

She stared at him for a long moment before finally speaking,“You’re right,”  _ (liar -- you’re such a liar) _ “You need to tumble and fall,” she leant forward, kissing the crown of his head gently, her lips brushing his brown locks, “before you can rise and stand.” _ (liar, liar, liar -- it only got worse.) _

Her lips still gently pressed against his forehead as he stared at her collar, eyes glittering in the forbidden way that ice did, before he spoke, “You tumble and fell, right?”

“Yes,” Ianthe murmured, taken by the warmth. 

“Then why can you still not stand?” he said innocently before he pressed a feather light kiss on her collar, where the scar  _ \-- her scar (burning, burning, burning -- why? it’s only a dream, isn’t it?)--  _ lay. 

She suddenly felt as if she was immersed in fire, burning deep inside and being overtaken by the flame -- and then, she felt as if glittering ice fought with valiant fire. The flames still licked at her form, still burned deep inside, but she also felt as if she had been doused in freezing water -- in freezing ice; as if she had been frozen in time, as if in this brief moment in time, she saw what had happened to her.

She was bathed in flame, in a burning rage and hate and self-loathing, and despite all her body -- all the people in her life -- all Dudley with worried eyes and teacups outside her door, with _ i’m worried ianthe. you’re burning up inside _ , and all Aunt Petunia in her glaring and judgemental ways, with leftovers for a delicate stomach, with all Uncle Vernon with barked orders of  _ look after yourself _ and  _ why’s there blood, girl?,  _ and all of Miss Nirmala and carefully collected sweets  _ (jalebi and the purple ones, her favourite),  _ knocking for hours and sitting in the cold and hoping with forlorn eyes that Ianthe would emerge.

With all of Mika with her hisses of  _ rani? pleasssse, don’t cry, don’t worry...things will get better, i promissse. you trussssst me, sssso you mussst believe thingssss will get better, yessss?, _ with her coils around Ianthe in sleep -- like she was comforting and hugging and saying  _ i’m here, sleep.you’re safe; no one will harm you.,  _ and Hedwig lulling her to sleep with soft hoots and hunting for mice in efforts of a gift, in efforts of comfort -- bickering with Mika to take Ianthe’s mind off her sorrow, -- even though all these people (and animals) had tried their best, their best to stop her burning, to stop her self-combusting, despite all their efforts, she had to try herself. 

She had to let the glittering ice allow itself free reign, had to let it put out the flame, had to _stand up and rise,_ had to _stand up, like you always do and punch whatever it is that is making you self-destruct in the face._ She had to do all those things.

She had to save herself from burning for something she could never control in the first place.

She needed to believe things could get better. 

_ (my darling, we will rise and fall together; we will fly and soar together; and if all else fails, we will fight together -- so believe, my darling. _

_ so breathe and believe.) _

Her eyes averted to Tom -- he stared back, eyes bleeding red as ice blue vanished, as he blessed her with a final smile; 

“I’ll be waiting.”

And then, she was falling -- 

falling -- 

_ falling --  _

* * *

_ (if i could float up, in the atmosphere, would anyone know that i’m hiding here? _

_ the deeper i sink, all i can think of is you.) _

A heavy weight lay on her legs as her eyes shot open as a single sentence passed her lips;

_ “Breathe. I need to breathe.” _

Her arms propelled herself up, her green eyes coming face to face with Dudley, who sat at the foot of her bed, “Ianthe?” he asked, voice small and questioning. 

“Breathe,” she rasped out, voice heavy and tired as her green eyes filled with tears, “Breathe. I -- I need to breathe and I  _ can’t --” _ she choked out, arms coming to clutch at herself as Dudley came nearer, chubby arms coming to enclose her in a hug, rubbing her back like the way he had seen dad do to mum when she got so emotional it reduced her to tears, “Dudley, I-I-I can’t -- can’t  _ breathe.”  _ she sobbed into his shoulder, “I can’t -- I feel as if -- as if I’m suffocating and I can’t -- I don’t -- I don’t know what to do…” she said brokenly, crying and crying -- needing to  _ breathe. _

Needing to believe that things could get better. 

“Dudley,” she said, looking at him imploringly with sobbing --  _ glowing  _ \-- broken --  _ demonic  _ \-- eyes, “I don’t know what to do…?”

_ (‘tuney, she looked up with glowing --  _ **_crying_ ** _ \-- demonic --  _ **_broken_ ** _ \-- eyes, i don’t know what to do..?) _

Dudley looked at his cousin, the one who had always stood up and glared him in the eye, the one who had been whisked by her world of magic, the world that had left her a hollow shell the whole summer; he opened his mouth, and deciding this time _ \-- this time --  _ he would be the brave one, be the valiant one, be the one who looked her in the eye and would say _ not this time. _

_ (not this time. she wouldn’t be broken this time -- by him or anyone else.) _

“Look at me,” and she looked.

_ (look at me, and she looked) _

“And  _ breathe  _ Ianthe --  **in,** out, **in,** out,  **in,** out…”

_ (and  _ breathe  _ lily -- _ **_in,_ ** _ out,  _ **_in,_ ** _ out,  _ **_in,_ ** _ out …) _

Ianthe’s heartbeat slowed, her breath slowed -- and she was able to breathe. 

She was able to see the state of herself in Dudley’s eyes. In his watery blue eyes, she was able to see her physical state -- the eye bags, the tangled and messy and as-if deadened hair, she was able to see the way her eyes brimmed with tears but she was able to see more -- she was able to see much more. 

She was able to see his worry, his concern, his palpable sense of _ i want to help. _

She was able to feel all these things -- she was able to feel  _ love. _

_ (pinching and prodding but giggling over a rattle toy and floating blocks. _

_ a splash of mud on her shirt -- dudley! -- haha, cousin! loo -- WHA--! -- mud on his shirt and mischievous giggles -- a mud fight -- a sigh -- you two… _

_ a letter and grubby hands -- let me read, otherwise i’ll tell mum and dad -- fine. she grouched out, meeting his hand as they performed a handshake -- but why would the lie? -- but magic’s still cool though, think you can write me letters when you go off to hogwarts? -- a chubby boy watching out the window a boat leaving with a burning in his chest and young girl whose whole life was about to change in the both the worst and best ways possible -- _

_ she’s self-destructing -- she’s burning -- i need to help --) _

Ianthe dared look at her cousin and smiled gently, smiled tiredly, “I may not be able to tell you everything --” she gulped, “but I’ll try as best as I can?”

Dudley squeezed her arms, smiling slightly, “That’s all anyone can do, cousin.”

She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder, before starting to speak, “I suppose,“ she began, “It starts with a discovery of magic…”

It starts with a giant and a kind smile  _ (starts with crinkled eyes and a shabby-robed man and words -- god, words everywhere--)  _

It starts with the discovery of her heritage  _ (with james and lily potter -- it started with the noble house of potter -- it started with family --)  _

It starts with the meeting of Professor Quirrell  _ (-- purple turban and sometimes-red eyes -- starts with a cursed teaching position and biting words --) _

It starts with the discovery of Draco Malfoy  _ (starts with an eager young boy -- glittering grey eyes with a mother and father and family -- starts with a lengthened scar and magical signatures -- starts with an someone who gives her icecream -- someone who cared --)  _

It starts with the discovery of  _ Soulmarks. (started with elation and delight -- started with  _ flight from death  _ \-- started with  _ someone to love -- platonic or romantic or other -- and someone who will love me in turn.)

It starts with the discovery of her wand connection.  _ (started with brother wands -- started with phoenix feathers from the same phoenix -- started with a phoenix cry -- beautiful, soulful -- sad -- mourning -- why?) _

It starts with the discovery of _ Foe Marks. (destined enemies -- a myth --  _ but i believe _ \-- it started with discord and the deathly hallows -- started with the elder wand -- started with the resurrection stone -- started with the cloak of invisibility -- started in a wand shop with a lonely man with moons for eyes --) _

It starts with the discovery of Mika and Hedwig. _ (started with  _ we have both losssst, sssso we will become each other’ssss family, yessss?,  _ started with glaring amber eyes and the sweet serpent tongue --)  _

It starts with the discovery of the reason for her fame.  _ (it start with a war -- the murder of families -- the murder of  _ her  _ family -- it starts with a man named Voldemort -- starts with  _ flight from death _ \-- starts with the colour green and pleading screams -- it ends with  _ not my darling baby! please -- have mercy -- aargh…! --  _ it ends with a burning collar --) _

It ends with a broken heart and self-destruction. ( _ it ends with _ we were meant for each other _ \-- it ends with silent tears -- it ends with a broken heart -- it ends with a kind smile and tired eyes -- it ends with a week of choking sobs and  _ why, why, why? tell me _ \-- it end with nothing but sorrow -- it ends with dull eyes and deadened hair and a bloody neck -- it ends in self-destruction --) _

It ends with a dream telling her to breathe. _(it starts with a blue-eyed boy who cries in a wardrobe -- it starts with_ you need to tumble and fall before you can stand and rise -- _it ends with_ you tumble and fell, right? _\-- it ends with_ then why can you still not stand? _\-- it ends with_ so breathe and believe _\-- it ends with_ falling -- falling -- **falling** _\-- it ends in fire and ice -- it ends in ice blue bleeding not-quite blood red -- it ends in --)_

It ends with  _ i’ll be waiting. (it ends with  _ falling -- falling --  **falling** _ \-- it ends in ice blue bleeding not-quite blood red -- it ends with a final smile -- it ends with -- it ends with  _ breathe. i need to breathe.)

“And he…”

“He killed my parents, and -- and --” she gripped Dudley tighter, something which he returned, “How am I supposed to form an semblance of a relationship with him -- how can I be fated to be by his side -- friend or romantic or whatever -- if he’s the one who has reduced me to this?”

_ A pitiful, weak, mess,  _ her mind supplied.

_ A disgrace of a person -- of a witch _ , it said to join the first.

A brewing anger -- not hers --

_ Never. Never a pitiful, weak, mess -- never a disgrace. _

_ Never anything but yourself, Ianthe. _

The voice.

“If he is the one who took my family? My home? How can I hope to have anything but hate towards the man named Voldemort?” 

~~_ (and the man named tom riddle?) _ ~~

Dudley stayed still and quiet for a long moment, before he finally spoke, still hugging his far-too brave cousin, far-too strong cousin, “But what if...what if it’s a Foe Mark? What if you’re destined to always hunt him and you him? If you’re destined to kill each other -- ...that’s a far more terrible existence Ianthe.” 

He pulled back and looked her in the eye, “What if it’s a Foe Mark?”

She looked at him, looked at Dudley who had always been coddled and adored, who had always known where he belonged -- Who had never known fear.

Never known hunger or sadness. Never known hate and known how it felt to feel despised. 

“If it is a Foe Mark…” she said slowly, biting her lips as blood came forward, tangy and metallic, “If he does come chasing,” her eyes shined, demonic and full of raging fire, “Then I will repay the debt that is owed. I will ready him tenfold of the grief he has brought, I will repay him with blood,” soaked red lips, “with might,” glowing eyes, “I will repay him even if the world burns.”  _ demonic  _ eyes.

Blood red lips, demonic eyes, and a word on her collar, in her heart, in her mind; 

_ Voldemort.  _

_ (a monster will never be tamed. the hellfire will always burn -- forever.) _

Dudley looked at her quietly, “And if I burn?”

Ianthe grinned, back to the defiant girl who punched Piers in the face, the girl who hissed with Mika and held her memories close, who held child-Lily and child-Sev closer; back to the girl who was made of life and laughter and  _ love. _

She bopped his nose.

“I would never let someone I loved burn, Dudley.”

Because she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t let this new-found familial love die so quickly. 

He grinned and took a sharp intake of breath, “Right, right…” 

She yawned. 

“Come, let’s sleep. What time is it?”

She lay on her pillow as he lay down beside her, holding hands like a brother holds sister, like a friend holds a friend, “Witching hour…” he replied sleepily, rubbing his eye. 

“Witching hour...witching hour…” 

An hour for those of magic. 

A time for wands and cauldrons.

A time for scared vows to form.

A time to fall asleep, side by side, cousin and cousin -- newfound friends. 

A time for one thing --

_ (a plea, a cry -- not my darling daughter! not my baby! have mercy, have mercy! -- avada kedavra! -- aargh! -- a pleading cry, a heart wrenching cry, a mother’s cry -- one thought -- protect her, Lady Hekate -- a thought cast at witching hour -- a thought is all it takes -- a mother pleading to another mother -- protect my child as i would have protected yours -- one thought, one plea, one wish -- that is all it takes --) _

_ (a phoenix will burn, will be doused in water and stuffed in sand. will be taken hostage to the burning, everlasting flame -- but they prevail. they suffer and die -- but they are reborn; fire in their blood and life in their veins. they are reborn at the time of change -- at the time of magic and cauldrons. they are reborn during the witching hour -- true or false? life or death? it is the phoenix who chooses --) _

_ (it is Lady Hekate who chooses --)  _

_ (it is Fate who chooses --) _

_ (it is Mother Magic who chooses --) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter and Ianthe's terrible summer.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL FOR THE PHENOMENAL RESPONSE FROM THE LAST CHAPTER!!!! You lot really made my day and i cherish all the comment's, kudo's, bookmarks and hits!You all warm my heart! 
> 
> On that note, this line -- if i could float up, in the atmosphere, would anyone know that i’m hiding here? the deeper i sink, all i can think of is you -- was taken from the song 52-Hearts by @Bao Ch. 海の幽霊  
> (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZQ7nZ8Lc7pslBN0gN1Jg0w)
> 
> Highly recommend the song as i listened to it on repeat and these as well:  
> You Let Me Walk Alone by Michael Schulte  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rp27Ggo_edo&list=RDMMrp27Ggo_edo&start_radio=1)  
> Doctor Who Doomsday Theme (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpxGl0nFtsw&t=2691s)
> 
> Doomsday was mostly listened to in later scenes -- hence the sadness-type feelings. And another thing, MY FIRST GIFT FIC! Dark by the wonderful silver_drip! It left my jaw hanging -- it’s linked below, so check it out!
> 
> Feel free to drop a hello and tell me what you think!
> 
> (and now i have to go do that History homework i've been procrastinating on -- huzzah!)

**Author's Note:**

> So. 
> 
> Lately I've been obsessed with soulmate au's and fem harry with tom riddle, and so I've decided to start this, despite having many other planned fics. 
> 
> Do I know what i'm doing? no. but i will do it anyway because i've been itching to publish something for a good few months. 
> 
> what else? expect updates maybe once every two weeks, or whenever i feel like it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509467) by [silver_drip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_drip/pseuds/silver_drip)




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